[See  page  250 
BIG  FATHER SEND  FOR  LITTLE  HAL HAL  SEE  THE  RISING  SUN  '  ' 


The    Squaw   Man 

A   Novel 


By 
Julie   Opp   Faversham 


Adapted  from  the  Play  by 
Edwin    Milton    Roylc 


New  York 

Grosset   &  Dunlap 

Publishers 


Published  by  arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers 


Copyright,  1906,  by  HARPBR  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Published  December,  1906. 


s 


TO 

WILLIAM    FAVERSHAM 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

*  THE  SQUAW  MAN  " Caver  Inlay 

"'BIG    FATHER — SEND    FOR     LITTLE     HAL — HAL 

SEE  THE  RISING  SUN  "' Frontispiece 

"ALMOST    AS     ONE     MAN     THEY     THRUST     THEIR 

REVOLVERS    INTO    BUD'S    FACE " Facing  p.  l66 

"SHE    DREW    HERSELF    UP    CLOSE    TO    HIM,    AND 

SAID   'ME   KILL   fUMf" I**2 

"'YES,   DIANA.      MY   BOY — MY  SON*** 262 


The  illustrations  in  this  book  are  reproduced  from 
graphs  of  scenes  in  the  play,  made  by  Hall's  Studio,  New 
York;  the  cover  inlay  by  Morrison,  Chicago. 


HOME 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  Jim's  last  day  at  home.     He  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  fragrant  garden   and  watched   the 
glory  of  color  suffusing  the  Surrey  hills  towards  the 
west.     With  a  sigh  he  turned  away  and  walked  to 
the  house. 

"Where's  Diana  ?"  he  called,  as  he  came  from  the 
garden  through  the  casement-window  of  the  library. 

"Diana — why,  she's  in  bed  an  hour  ago,  I  should 
hope,"  replied  his  aunt,  Lady  Elizabeth  KerhilL 
"She  and  Mabel  went  with  Bates  to  see  the  decora 
tions  and  then  said  good-night.  Surely  you  didn't 
expect  me  to  allow  the  children  to  stay  up  for  the 
ball  ?" 

Mabel  was  her  daughter;  Diana  Marjoribanks  was 
a  young  girl  of  thirteen,  who  had  come  to  visit  her. 

"Poor  imps!  they  were  so  excited  all  day,  and  fol 
lowed  me  about  the  gun-room  where  I  was  doing 
some  packing.  They  wanted  me  to  coax  you  to  allow 
them  to  see  the  bail,  and  the  tenantry  welcome  Henry 
to-night." 

I 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Lady  Kerhill  'elevated  her  eyebrows  in  questioning 
amazement  at  Jim,  as  she  nervously  twisted  the  lace 
of  her  gowny  :arul  with  an  impatient  gesture  motioned 
the  subject  aside.  She  was  a  tall,  angular  woman, 
with  a  profile  like  the  head  on  a  bronze  coin;  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  the  eagle  in  her  personality,  and 
by  her  friends  she  was  likened  to  the  famous  Sarah 
Churchill,  the  first  Duchess  of  Marlborough. 

To-night  her  face  showed  that  anxious  thoughts 
were  crowding  in  on  her  as  she  apprehensively  watch 
ed  the  big,  carved  oak  door  leading  into  the  hall. 
Jim  knew  his  aunt's  firmness  of  character,  and  as 
silence  followed  his  words,  he  feared  further  discus 
sion  was  useless;  but  the  wistful  faces  of  the  children 
at  tea-time  in  the  nursery,  as  they  coaxed  him  to 
plead  for  them  to  see  the  fun,  made  him  venture  a 
final  appeal. 

"You  know,  Aunt,  Sir  Charles  brought  Di  over  to 
stay  with  Mabel  so  that  she  might  see  the  festivities 
and  incidentally  say  good-bye  to  me,  so  you  might 
turn  angel  and  let  Diana  dance  once  with  me  at  the 
very  beginning  of  the  ball.  I  sha'n't  see  my  little 
playfellow  for  ages,  you  know." 

A  sound  from  outside  held  Lady  Elizabeth's  atten 
tion  more  intently  than  Jim's  pleading  words.  He 
crossed  to  her  in  the  window-enclosure  and  laid  his 
hand  caressingly  on  her  shoulder. 

"The  Colonel  wired  me  that  we  were  leaving  Pad- 
dington  at  nine  to-morrow  morning,  and  India  is  a 
long  way  off,  Auntie  mine." 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

"Nonsense,"  answered  Lady  Elizabeth,  as  she  rose 
from  the  deep  window-seat.  "  You  are  almost  twenty, 
and  Diana  is  only  a  babe — isn't  she,  Henry  ?"  She 
glanced  up  and  appealed  to  the  young  man  who  rather 
noisily  entered  the  library. 

"Who's  a  babe?  Diana?  Why,  mater,  she's  a 
little  witch,  and  I  promised  her  I'd  let  her  see  the 
illuminations  at  ten  and  then  old  Burrow  should 
carry  her  off  to  bed." 

Henry  Wynnegate,  seventh  Earl  of  Kerhill,  dropped 
into  a  great  settle  close  to  the  fire.  The  ball  was  for 
the  tenantry  in  celebration  of  his  return,  after  five 
years'  absence  with  his  regiment.  He  was  a  tall, 
heavy-set  young  soldier  of  seven-and-twenty,  with  the 
famous  Wynnegate  beauty,  but  it  was  marred  by  the 
shifting  expression  of  his  rather  deep-set  eyes  and  the 
heavy  lines  about  his  mouth.  Self  was  his  god:  it 
showed  in  every  expression  of  his  face  and  in  every 
action  of  his  life. 

Jim  Wynnegate,  his  cousin,  the  son  of  the  younger 
brother  of  the  late  Earl,  Henry's  father,  turned  from 
the  window  as  Henry  entered.  In  the  young  boy's 
face  —  for  he  seemed  younger  than  his  years — one 
could  easily  trace  the  family  resemblance;  but  Jim, 
with  his  great,  clean  spirit  shining  in  his  honest  gray 
eyes,  invited  confidence  and  won  it,  from  a  mongrel 
dog  to  a  superior  officer.  He  was  taller  than  Henry, 
and  as  slim  as  a  young  sapling.  The  delicate,  sensi 
tive  mouth  was  balanced  by  a  strong  chin. 

In  the  oak-lined  room,  grown  almost  black  with  age, 

3 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

the  candle-lights  flickering  in  the  heavy  brass  sconces, 
stood  these  three  last  descendants  of  a  great  family. 
The  Earl's  brother,  Dick  Wynnegate,  had  run  away 
with  the  daughter  of  an  impecunious  colonel.  A 
few  years  later,  while  on  service  in  India,  he  was  shot, 
and  the  young  wife  lived  only  to  bring  the  tiny  boy 
Jim  home  and  to  leave  him  with  her  husband's 
brother.  Even  then  the  fortunes  of  the  Wynnegates 
were  somewhat  impaired,  but  the  old  Earl  had  taken 
the  boy  to  his  heart,  and  on  his  death  had  confided 
him  to  his  wife  to  share  their  fortune  with  his  son 
Henry.  His  last  words  were,  "  Be  good  to  poor  Dick's 
boy."  The  estates  were  entailed,  so  no  provision  could 
be  made  by  him  for  Jim,  but  Lady  Kerhill,  in  her 
cold,  just  fashion,  had  tried  to  make  Dick's  boy 
happy. 

Deep  in  his  heart,  Jim  remembered  the  years  that 
followed;  remembered  the  selfish  domination  of  the 
elder  boy;  remembered  the  blind  adoration  of  his  aunt 
for  her  son,  the  bearer  of  the  torch,  who  was  to  carry 
on  the  golden  light  of  the  house  of  Kerhill.  In  the 
Anglo-Saxon  idolatry  of  the  Countess  of  Kerhill  lor 
the  male  of  the  family,  all  the  old  traditions  and  be 
liefs  were  justified.  Her  boy  —  the  man-child  who 
was  to  be  the  head  of  the  house— was  her  obsession. 
The  tiny,  flower-like  girl  who  came  shortly  before  her 
husband's  death,  learned  soon  to  turn  to  Cousin  Jim 
for  comfort  when  her  brother  carelessly  crushed  her 
little  joys,  as  he  selfishly  planned  and  fought  for  his 
own  gratification. 

4 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Instinctively  Jim  watched  his  aunt,  who,  at  Hen 
ry's  word,  had  started  to  move  towards  him. 

"Of  course,  if  you  care  to  go  and  fetch  Diana,  I 
shall  be  happy,"  Lady  Kerhill  said. 

Henry  lounged  back  in  his  chair.  "Well,  if  I 
forget,  Jim  can  remember  for  me — eh,  Jim  ?" 

Lady  Kerhill's  face  became  grave  as  she  leaned 
over  Henry's  chair  and  closely  studied  the  flushed 
face.  She  found  there  confirmation  of  the  fear  that 
had  preyed  on  her  mind  for  the  past  half-hour. 

"Oh,  Henry,  you've  broken  your  word,"  she  whis 
pered. 

The  reckless  challenge  of  Henry's  dark  eyes  as  he 
moved  impatiently  in  his  chair  was  his  only  answer. 
Then  in  a  burst  of  ill-concealed  resentment  he  rose: 
"Don't  nag,  mother." 

He  swayed  slightly  as  he  crossed  to  the  open  case 
ment.  As  Jim  turned  to  him,  he  sullenly  pushed  him 
aside. 

"And  don't  you  preach,"  he  muttered,  as  he  started 
for  the  garden. 

Jim  quickly  caught  him  by  the  shoulder,  "Pull 
yourself  together,  Henry.  It's  eight  o'clock  and  the 
people  are  gathering  in  the  park." 

Henry's  only  reply  was  a  snarl  as  he  disappeared 
in  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

The  broad  window  opened  level  on  an  Old  World 
garden  that  led  into  the  great  park  beyond.  The 
late  twilight  of  the  July  night  was  bathing  park  and 
garden  in  a  curious,  unearthly  light  which  made 

5 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

strange  spectres  of  the  slowly  waving  yew-trees.  The 
scent  of  the  rose-bushes,  the  call  of  the  late  night 
ingale  to  his  mate,  and  the  ghostly  sundial,  sentinel- 
like,  guarding  the  old  place,  made  a  fitting  environ 
ment  for  Maudsley  Towers. 

On  a  slight  hill  beyond  the  park,  Jim  could  see  the 
ruins  of  the  famous  Norman  church.  To  the  right,  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  garden,  was  the  Fairies'  Corner. 
There  among  the  trees  the  fairies  of  the  field  were 
supposed  to  sleep,  and  to  listen  to  and  grant  the  re 
quests  of  the  children,  who  had  the  courage  to  venture 
to  them  at  even-tide.  Jim's  thoughts  were  busy  to 
night;  all  the  old  memories  seemed  to  tug  at  his 
heartstrings. 

He  had  carried  Diana  Marjoribanks  there  on  her 
first  visit  to  the  Towers.  She  was  six  then  and  he  was 
twelve.  She  had  clung  to  him  and  hid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder — the  tiny  body  had  stiffened  with  fear 
— as  they  made  their  way  to  the  dark  enclosure  of 
the  trees.  He  could  still  hear  her  prayer. 

"Dear  Fairy,  please  make  Henry  kinder  to  poor 
Jim,  poor  Mabel,  and  poor  me!" 

Even  then,  Henry  had  been  the  little  tyrant  of  the 
Towers. 

And  yet  to-night  Henry's  wish,  as  of  old,  was  law 
to  his  mother.  She  conceded  Diana  to  him  at  his 
first  careless  request,  although  in  all  probability  he 
would  forget  the  longing  child  in  the  nursery — forget 
his  promise  to  give  her  pleasure,  as  he  had  forgotten 
so  often  when  he  was  a  boy. 

6 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim  roused  himself;  as  he  turned  to  Lady  Eliza 
beth  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  with  the  mask  off, 
the  bitter  disappointment  of  the  mother's  heart  show 
ing  in  every  line  of  her  proud  face.  He  crossed  to 
her,  but  the  sound  of  carriage- wheels  turning  into  the 
driveway  heralded  the  approach  of  the  first  arrivals, 
and  before  Jim  could  speak  the  doors  were  thrown 
open  to  the  guests. 

Lady  Elizabeth  gave  one  look  of  appeal  to  Jim. 
It  said:  "Help  Henry  and  me!" 

Up-stairs  in  the  right  wing  of  the  old  house,  a  tall, 
slender  child  crouched  close  to  the  nursery  window. 
She  had  crept  from  her  cot,  and,  wrapped  in  a  cover 
let,  waited,  and  clung  to  the  belief  that  Henry  would 
come  for  her.  Jim  had  said  he  wrould  try,  but  Henry 
had  promised.  She  was  old  enough  to  know  that 
what  Henry  desired  he  obtained.  Her  little  face  was 
pressed  closer  and  closer  to  the  window  as  she  listened 
to  the  swelling  music  and  saw  the  guests  thronging 
towards  the  park.  Carriage  after  carriage  brought 
its  load  of  finery,  until  the  child  fancied  that  the  entire 
county  must  be  gathered  below.  She  could  see  through 
the  climbing  roses  down  into  the  library,  which  jutted 
out  at  a  sharp  angle  almost  opposite  to  the  nursery 
window.  But  of  Jim  or  Henry  she  could  catch  no 
glimpse. 

The  stars  began  to  creep  out  and  blink  at  the  tiny 
figure  in  the  window  -  seat.  Gradually  the  entire 
house  grew  quiet.  All  —  even  the  servants  —  had 
joined  the  revelry  in  the  park. 

7 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

The  music  crashed  louder.  Fiery  showers  of 
illumination  could  be  seen  shooting  and  flaming  into 
the  sky.  It  grew  cold.  Tighter  she  drew  the  coverlet 
and  held  closer  the  small  puppy  that  nestled  warm  in 
her  arms  and  slept.  In  the  adjoining  room  Mabel, 
Lady  KerhuTs  little  daughter,  lay  fast  asleep. 

"It's  Jim's  last  night.  I  must  say  good-bye,"  the 
child  whispered  to  the  fleecy  white  bundle  in  her  arms. 
"I  must  keep  awake  and  say  good-bye." 

Fainter  grew  the  music,  darker  the  sky,  and  heavier 
the  curved  eyelids.  Slowly,  with  a  sigh  the  child 
slipped  to  the  floor,  and  the  brown  head  pillowed 
itself  on  the  cushioned  window-seat.  Diana  slept. 

In  the  park,  the  tenantry,  eager  to  meet  their  young 
master,  were  shouting  themselves  hoarse.  A  speech 
of  welcome  followed  the  dazzling  illuminations.  Over 
it  all,  Lady  Elizabeth,  with  Sir  Charles  Marjoribanks, 
presided. 

Diana  and  her  father  lived  on  a  neighboring  estate, 
and  Sir  Charles  had  come  to-night  to  rejoice  with  his 
old  friend  on  the  return  of  her  son.  Sir  Charles  was 
a  man  of  slender  physique,  with  a  gentle,  winning 
manner;  extremely  delicate  in  health,  he  led  for 
the  most  part  a  secluded  life,  and  since  the  death  of 
his  wife,  at  Diana's  birth,  went  little  into  the  social 
world.  Diana's  childhood  had  been  almost  as  lonely 
as  Jim's  had  been  in  his  aunt's  home.  To-night  Sir 
Charles  delighted  in  seeing  the  house  of  Wynnegate 
honored.  He  scarcely  noted  the  reckless  demeanor 
and  wild  spirits  of  Henry  as  unusual;  only  for  Jim 

8 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

and  Lady  Elizabeth  was  it  a  night  of  anxiety.  Never 
for  a  moment  did  Henry  escape  Jim's  watchful  eyes; 
slip  after  slip  made  by  Henry  was  covered  by  Jim's 
tact  and  thoughtfulness,  and  with  simple  dignity  he 
carried  the  night  to  success.  Only  when  he  stood 
aside  and  saw  Henry  receive  the  demonstrations  of  the 
county  and  tenantry  did  the  bitterness  of  his  position 
force  itself  upon  him.  Not  once  did  Henry  remember 
his  promise  to  the  child  waiting  for  him.  Jim  re 
membered;  but  the  look  of  appeal  from  his  aunt,  and 
the  sullen  defiance  of  Henry,  kept  him  close  to  his 
cousin's  side. 

The  final  bars  of  the  last  dance  were  dying  away 
and  the  ball  was  drawing  to  its  brilliant  end.  In 
the  east,  a  pale  streak  of  light  was  beginning  to  show 
over  the  horizon.  Sir  Charles,  half  an  hour  before, 
had  gone  to  his  room.  Exhausted  by  the  long  even 
ing's  anxiety  and  late  festivities,  Lady  Kerhill  forgot 
that  Jim  was  to  leave  early  in  the  morning  and  that 
she  would  not  see  him  again,  and  had  retired  to  her 
own  apartment.  In  the  great  hall,  tired  and  excited 
groups  of  guests  were  saying  good-night. 

"It's  good-bye  for  Jim,"  Sir  John  Applegate, 
Diana's  cousin,  called  as  the  last  carriage  drove 
away. 

A  half -whimsical  smile  played  over  Jim's  face. 
Then  some  one  remembered  that  he  was  leaving 
England.  As  he  turned  from  the  door,  he  met  the 
eyes  of  his  cousin  fastened  on  him,  all  the  latent  re 
bellion  rising  to  the  surface.  Henry  Kerhill  was  sober 

9 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

enougn  to  know  that  Jim  had  watched  and  guarded 
him  through  the  entire  night,  and  had  stood  between 
him  and  disgrace.  As  he  leaned  against  the  tall 
mantel,  the  bitter  consciousness  that  the  young  boy 
had  proved  himself  of  fine  mettle,  ate  like  acid  into 
his  feverish  brain.  He  dug  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets,  then  with  a  lurch  he  pulled  himself  together. 
Without  a  word  he  turned,  crossed  to  the  twisted 
staircase,  and  grasping  the  oak  rails,  slowly  ascended. 
From  the  landing  came  the  slam  of  a  heavy  door,  and 
Jim  knew  that  he  was  alone. 

So  this  was  the  end.  The  striking  of  the  bell  in 
the  church-tower  reminded  him  that  it  was  now  four 
o'clock  and  that  he  was  to  leave  at  six.  His  luggage 
had  been  sent  on  ahead  the  previous  day.  He  changed 
quickly,  without  disturbing  the  tired  servants,  and  in 
half  an  hour  was  ready  to  walk  to  the  station.  As 
he  came  down  the  broad  staircase,  lined  with  portraits 
of  the  ancestors  of  the  house  of  Wynnegate,  a  slight 
noise  in  the  corridor  leading  off  from  the  broad  land 
ing  attracted  him.  Before  he  could  turn,  a  low  voice 
called: 

"Jim— Jim!" 

It  was  Diana.  Standing  there  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  corridor,  she  made  an  entrancing  picture.  With 
the  parted  hair  falling  away  from  the  low  brow,  around 
the  oval  face,  and  the  far-apart  blue-black  eyes,  she 
looked  like  the  child  Madonna  of  Rosetti's  "Annun 
ciation."  The  coverlet  was  drawn  close  about  her, 
the  puppy  still  hidden  under  its  folds. 

10 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"It's  Di,  Jim,"  she  whispered  as  she  hurried  to 
him.  "I  waited  and  waited  for  you — I  knew  you 
were  going  away  and  I  wanted  to  say  good-bye. 
Burrow  promised  that  she  would  let  me  see  you,  but 
she's  fast  asleep,  and  so  is  Mabel.  I  tried  to  wake 
them  but  I  couldn't."  The  little  figure  cuddled  into 
his  arms. 

Jim's  heart  was  very  full  as  he  looked  at  the  frail 
child  in  the  early  dawn,  the  shadows  of  a  restless 
night  showing  on  her  delicately  modelled  face. 
He  drew  her  into  a  window  -  enclosure,  and  wrap 
ping  the  heavy  curtains  about  her,  held  her 
fast. 

"Say  something,"  the  sweet  voice  coaxed.  "I 
shall  miss  you  so  and  wait  for  you  to  come  back.  You 
will  come  back,  won't  you  ?" 

Jim's  only  answer  was  to  press  the  little  head  close 
to  his  heart.  In  all  the  great  house,  she  alone  had 
cared  to  say  good-bye — to  wish  him  in  her  child's 
way  godspeed. 

"See,"  Diana  continued  as  she  opened  her  arms, 
"here  is  something  for  you  to  take  away  with  you,  so 
that  you  sha'n't  be  lonely  any  more."  She  opened 
her  arms  and  held  up  the  soft  roll  of  fur  with  its 
blinking  eyes  and  pink-tipped  nose. 

"Di,  dear  Di,"  Jim  whispered,  as  he  patted  the 
towsled  hair. 

Quite  seriously  her  big  eyes  searched  Jim's  face  to 
be  sure  that  her  gift  truly  won  approval. 

The  church  clock  boomed  the  hour  of  five.  Jim 

ii 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

hurriedly  rose  and  slipped  the  dog  into  his  coat- 
pocket. 

"Good-bye,  Di,  and  God  bless  you!" 
She  clung  quietly  to  him  with  her  arms  tight  around 
his  neck  for  a  long  time;  then  the  little  face  quivered, 
and  in  a  burst  of  tears  she  sank  back   among  the 

to 

cushions  of  the  window-seat.  Jim  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  with  a  final  pat  on  the  dear  head,  hurriedly 
reached  the  doorway  and  vas  out  on  the  high-road. 
From  a  turn  at  the  top  of  the  common  he  caught 
a  last  glimpse  of  the  great  house,  and  in  the 
big  window  of  the  hall  could  see  the  faint  out 
line  of  the  white  figure  still  huddled  among  the 
cushions. 

All  the  suppression  of  the  past  days  gave  way. 
With  a  cry,  Jim  threw  himself  down  on  the  damp 
ground  and  convulsive  sobs  shook  his  body.  It  had 
all  been  his — his  home,  his  country — and  he  was 
leaving  it  without  a  friend,  without  a  loving  hand  or 
voice  to  cheer  him. 

He  suddenly  felt  a  damp  nose  thrust  into  his  hand, 
and  a  soft  tongue  began  to  lap  his  face  as  though  in 
sympathy.  The  tiny  puppy  had  fallen  from  his 
pocket  and  crawled  on  to  his  shoulder.  He  rose  to 
his  feet  and  picked  up  the  fluffy  ball;  something  in 
the  round,  pulpy  mass  made  him  laugh. 

"So  I've  found  a  friend,  have  I?  Is  that  what 
you're  trying  to  tell  me  ?" 

The  dog  gave  a  faint  yelp  in  reply  and  began  to 
lick  his  hand.  Holding  the  dog  close  to  hin ,  Jim 

12 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

walked  on,  all  the  boy  in  him  welling  up  to  meet  the 
promise  of  the  new  day.     Suddenly  he  stopped  as  he 
neared  the  station  platform,  and  stroking  gently  the 
soft  fur,  he  whispered: 
"I'll  call  you  Di' 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  London  in  full  swing.  A  wild  April  shower 
had  sprung  up  and  was  quickly  driving  people 
into  the  shelter  of  passing  hansoms.  There  was  a 
sudden  exodus  from  the  park  of  gayly  gowned  women, 
hurrying  to  their  waiting  carriages.  Bewildered 
nurses  gathered  their  young  charges  into  protecting 
corners.  Only  a  few  minutes  before  it  had  been 
radiant  sunshine.  Open  high -swung  see -victorias, 
with  their  powdered,  liveried  men  on  the  boxes,  and 
unprotected  occupants  driving  from  a  royal  house 
to  a  ducal  assemblage,  were  caught  in  the  congested 
mass  of  hansoms,  top-heavy  'busses,  and  passing  carts. 
Stalwart,  blue-coated  giants  were  trying  to  stem  the 
rush  and  scramble. 

Diana  crossed  from  the  couch  where  she  had  been 
sitting  to  the  open  window.  In  a  week's  time  she 
was  to  be  married.  She  held  a  note  in  her  hand, 
which  had  just  come  by  messenger.  It  was  from 
Henry.  He  could  not  take  her  to  Ranelagh  as  he  had 
planned,  he  wrote.  Unexpected  business  had  arisen, 
but  he  would  see  her  later  in  the  evening. 

The  room  in  which  Diana  stood  faced  Hyde  Park. 
The  house  was  one  of  those  built  a  century  ago  by 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

the  mad  Duke  of  Deitbrd,  and  was  famous  for  the 
purity  of  its  architecture.  On  this  spring  day  the 
front  looked  like  a  hanging  garden,  so  abundant  and 
exquisite  were  the  large  boxes  of  trailing  flowers. 
The  room  with  its  Adam  ceiling  and  mantel,  its  crim 
son  brocade  curtains  against  the  pale -cream  walls, 
its  rare  specimens  of  Sheraton  and  Chippendale  and 
precious  bits  of  china,  made  a  harmonious  setting  for 
Diana  in  her  dove -colored  gown.  Bowls  of  yellow 
jonquils  and  daffodils  gleamed  like  golden  bits  of 
imprisoned  sunlight  on  slender-legged  tables. 

Diana  was  alone.  Lady  Dillingham,  her  aunt, 
and  the  mistress  of  the  Park  Lane  House  was  con 
fined  to  her  room  with  a  sharp  attack  of  gout.  From 
the  window  looking  out  across  the  park,  the  rain 
glinted  like  a  fine  sheet  of  steel.  It  beat  down  the 
great  beds  of  flaming  hyacinths  and  daffodils  that 
lined  the  park  walk  with  their  glory  of  purple  and 
yellow.  The  blue-and-white  fleecy  sky  of  a  past  half- 
hour  now  hung  over  the  town  like  a  dirty  ship's  sail, 
with  puffing,  dun-colored  clouds  sweeping  past. 

Diana  half  consciously  watched  the  amusing  scurry 
of  the  passers-by.  Through  the  long,  open  windows 
protected  by  a  projecting  balcony  she  could  hear  the 
splashing  of  the  rain  against  the  pavement.  The 
confusion  of  carnages  began  to  straighten  itself  out. 
The  hurrying  crowds  disappeared  as  though  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  drenched  ground.  What  had  been 
a  fantastic,  brilliantly  colored  panorama  was  now  a 
desolate  space. 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

As  Diana  stood  there,  a  rising  resentment  at  the 
broken  promise  filled  her  mind.  It  was  not  because 
of  the  disappointment.  So  often,  at  the  last  moment, 
her  plans  had  been  changed  by  Henry's  failure  to 
keep  his  engagements  with  her.  A  sharp  gust  of 
wind  blew  its  damp  air  into  the  room  and  made  her 
shiver.  She  closed  the  window  and  walked  to  the  open 
log  fire.  The  spring  days  of  an  English  climate  still 
permitted  this  luxury  within  doors.  As  she  sat  before 
the  hearth,  the  letter  still  in  her  hand  hanging  listlessly 
by  her  side,  the  door  quietly  opened  and  her  father 
entered.  On  the  previous  day  he  had  come  up  from 
the  country  to  join  Diana,  who  was  visiting  his  sister 
while  the  necessary  wedding  preparations  were  being 
completed.  The  passing  years  had  greatly  aged  Sir 
Charles.  The  delicate,  high  -  bred  face  had  grown 
more  spiritual,  and  he  seemed  further  aloof  from 
material  influences. 

With  a  pang  Diana  noticed  the  change.  She  rose 
and  crossed  to  him,  her  tall  figure  hovering  protect- 
ingly  over  the  old  man.  The  maternal  instinct  was 
deeply  embedded  in  Diana's  nature.  Quite  tenderly 
he  took  the  young  face  in  his  withered  but  exquisitely 
modelled  hands  and  kissed  her. 

"Alone,  dear?"  he  said.  "I  thought  Henry  was 
to  take  you  to  join  some  people  at  Ranelagh." 

"Henry  has  just  sent  me  word  that  he  is  unex 
pectedly  detained  in  the  city." 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Sir  Charles  wince. 

She  was  very  beautiful,  in  a  curious,  contradictory 

16 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

way.  Her  tender,  serious  eyes  suggested  the  Ma 
donna,  but  her  arched,  full  mouth  made  her  a  half 
Venus.  More  than  tall,  there  was  in  the  lithe,  girlish 
figure  an  embodiment  of  latent  reliance  and  vitality. 
Her  usually  calm  face  was  disturbed  at  the  moment 
by  a  look  of  intense  perplexity.  It  seemed  as  though 
she  were  vainly  trying  to  combat  her  doubts. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute,  then  in  a  burst 
of  tears  she  slipped  down  beside  the  big  chair  in  which 
her  father  sat. 

"I  can't  marry  Henry — I  can't,"  she  sobbed,  as 
she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

For  a  moment  Sir  Charles  was  startled;  then, 
smiling  at  what  he  divined  to  be  a  lover's  quarrel,  he 
patiently  patted  the  bent  head  as  though  humoring  a 
wayward  child.  Absorbed  in  his  own  narrow  life, 
he  had  no  knowledge  of  men,  and  to  him  Henry 
Wynnegate  was  an  ideal  match  for  his  motherless 
girl. 

He  had  known  the  late  Earl  well,  and  in  the  re 
flected  glory  of  the  parents  he  saw  the  son.  His 
heart  was  set  on  seeing  Diana  safely  moored  in  the 
house  of  Wynnegate  and  the  brilliant  position  hers, 
which  she  could  assume  as  the  Countess  of  Kerhill. 
These  tears,  of  course,  were  the  foolish  outcome  of 
the  afternoon's  disappointment.  He  let  her  have 
her  cry  out;  then  gradually  drew  the  slender  hands 
from  her  face. 

"You  are  unreasonable,  my  child,"  he  began. 
"Surely  you  can  hope  for  no  better  husband  than  the 

17 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

son  of  my  late  friend.  Why,  I  have  known  him  from 
childhood.  Think,"  he  went  on,  "of  his  career  as  a 
soldier;  of  the  respect  of  his  tenantry;  of  his  position 
in  the  world."  He  forgot  the  dominance  of  Lady 
Elizabeth,  who,  by  her  plans  and  generalship  had 
commanded  all  these  attributes  for  her  son.  "With 
his  knowledge  of  life  and  the  future  assured  him," 
he  continued,  "he  can  give  you  all  that  so  far  has 
been  denied  to  you.  What  more  can  you  desire,  my 
dear  ?" 

Diana  raised  her  tear-stained  face  and  listened. 

He  drew  her  close  to  him,  his  feeble  body  vibrating 
with  sudden  emotion  as  he  said,  "I  am  very  feeble- 
far  older  than  my  years,  and  I  long  to  see  you  safely 
placed."  He  waited  a  moment  as  though  expecting 
a  reply,  but  there  was  no  answer  to  his  appeal.  "We 
are  poor,  Diana — very  poor.  I  have  carried  a  heavy 
burden  for  years.  This  marriage  will  make  me 
supremely  happy;  it  will  make  my  remaining  days 
peaceful."  He  paused.  "You  can  trust  me,  dear, 
in  this  matter.  Say  that  you  can." 

Something  in  the  tense,  pathetic  face  forced  back 
Diana's  words  of  opposition.  Perhaps  she  was  wrong. 
There  was  no  tangible  reason  for  this  rebellion  that 
her  perplexed  mind  could  grasp.  Her  father,  so 
gentle,  so  wise,  so  loving,  could  not  be  doubted. 
Sir  Charles  watched  her  eagerly.  He  loved  her,  but 
in  his  short-sighted  desire  for  her  happiness  he  failed 
to  see  the  depths  of  her  troubled  heart.  Almost  con 
vinced  that  her  frightened  instinct  was  wrong,  Diana 

18 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

rose,  and,  with  a  gentle  pressure  of  her  father's  hand, 
yielded  to  his  importunities.  Tactfully,  and  in 
silence,  Sir  Charles  accepted  her  consent. 

A  strained  pause  followed.  Sir  Charles  reflectively 
sank  into  the  cushions  of  his  high-backed  chair.  He 
was  sure  that  Diana's  outburst  was  mere  nervousness; 
it  was  often  so  with  young,  inexperienced  girls  before 
mairiase.  The  excitement  of  the  London  life  was  a 

o 

great  fatigue  to  him.  Even  the  muffled,  vibrating 
roar  that  half  penetrated  into  the  dwellings  of  May- 
fair,  told  on  his  sensitive  nature.  He  closed  his 
eyes. 

Diana's  girlhood  had  been  singularly  isolated  from 
the  world.  Shortly  after  Jim's  departure  for  India, 
she  had  been  sent  abroad  to  a  school  on  the  Continent. 
She  had  usually  spent  the  summers  with  her  father 
at  some  peaceful,  out  of  the  way  corner.  Her 
education  completed,  she  had  returned  during  the 
April  previous,  to  the  quiet  life  of  her  father's 
home. 

There  followed  the  lonely  weeks  with  her  awaken 
ing  womanhood  crying  out  for  comprehension.  Then 
one  day  Henry  Wynnegate  returned  to  the  Towers. 
She  had  only  a  vague  memory  of  the  subsequent  days 
of  amusement  that  passed  so  quickly.  All  that  her 
youth  and  gayety  had  so  long  desired  was  given  her. 
She  was  unconsciously  swept  on  by  the  passion  of 
Henry's  love  and  could  hardly  recall  when  she  prom 
ised  to  be  his  wife.  That  was  in  the  autumn. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  season  she  was  presented 

IQ 

i 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

at  court.  Her  youth  and  beauty  made  a  sensation, 
and  her  marriage  was  arranged  to  take  place  within 
a  month. 

Eager  to  grasp  the  bloom  of  the  fresh  flower  he 
had  plucked,  Henry  would  tolerate  no  delay.  Backed 
by  the  dominant  influence  of  his  mother,  who  in  Diana 
saw  not  only  the  gratification  of  Henry's  desires,  but 
a  gracious  bearer  of  his  name,  and,  with  the  persuasion 
of  Sir  Charles,  Diana  acquiesced  to  an  early  marriage. 
She  was  in  love  with  love,  not  with  the  man,  and  her 
loveliness  and  the  purity  of  her  fresh  young  soul  made 
her  idealize  the  best  of  Henry's  shifting,  many-sided 
nature. 

Sir  Charles  dozed  peacefully.  Diana,  with  feverish 
cheeks  and  burning  eyes,  longed  to  escape  from  the 
warm  room.  Through  the  closed  windows  she  could 
see  that  the  rain  had  ceased.  She  wanted  to  be  alone, 
to  calm  the  battling  emotions  of  the  past  hour.  As 
she  tiptoed  to  the  door,  it  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
Countess  of  Kerhill  and  Lady  Mabel  Wynnegate  were 
announced. 

Sir  Charles  aroused,  rose  quickly  from  his  chair  to 
greet  the  visitors. 

"My  dear,"  Lady  Kerhill  began,  as  she  entered 
the  room  and  embraced  Diana,  "we  are  going  to  ask 
you  for  our  tea  at  once  if  you  will  take  pity  on  us. 
Such  an  afternoon!  We  were  obliged  to  turn  back 
from  Ranelagh  because  of  the  storm.  Fortunately 
we  had  a  closed  carriage,  but  Mabel  and  I  were  so 
anxious  to  know  whether  you  and  Henry  had  started 

10 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

before  the  shower  sprang  up" — with  a  quick  look 
of  surprise  about  the  room,  she  exclaimed,  "Why, 
where  is  Henry  ?" 

Diana  rang  the  bell  for  tea. 

"I  had  a  note  from  Henry,  dear  Lady  Elizabeth, 
saying  he  was  detained  by  some  unexpected  busi 


ness." 


Sir  Charles  noticed  with  great  satisfaction  Diana's 
superb  control.  Her  rebellious  mood,  as  he  surmised, 
had  been  a  mere  whim. 

For  a  moment  a  half -frightened  look  came  into 
Lady  Elizabeth's  eyes.  She  was  never  quite  sure  of 
Henry,  but  even  to  herself  she  never  admitted  it.  She 
had  cast  him  for  a  role  that  he  neither  suggested  nor 
attempted  to  play,  but  she  never  flinched  before  the 
duty  of  wilfully  blinding  herself  to  these  truths.  Her 
love  and  her  belief  would  win,  and  out  of  it  all  would 
be  created  the  son  she  so  desired  Henry  to  be — that 
was  her  unconscious  prayer.  She  threw  off  the  mo 
ment's  anxiety. 

"No  doubt  it  is  a  busy  week  for  Henry,"  she  said. 
She  crossed  to  a  chair  near  the  fire,  and  with  the 
announcement  of  tea  began  to  gossip  with  Sir  Charles. 
Mabel  moved  close  to  Diana's  side  at  the  tea-table. 
She  had  grown  into  a  fairy-like  creature,  with  exquisite, 
youthful  coloring.  Very  shy  and  utterly  subordinate 
to  her  mother  and  brother,  she  lavished  upon  Diana 
a  great  affection  in  return  for  her  sympathy.  She  stole 
shy  glances  at  Diana's  unusual  color,  as  the  latter 
poured  the  tea  mechanically,  but  joined  little  in  the 

21 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

conversation.  Diana  caught  Mabel's  eyes  wonder- 
ingly  fastened  upon  her.  She  could  no  longer  endure 
the  close  room. 

"  I  must  get  a  breath  of  air.  Can  Mabel  go  with 
me  ?"  she  said,  as  she  rose  from  her  untouched  tea. 

Sir  Charles  was  explaining  to  Lady  Elizabeth  some 
details  of  the  previous  night's  rowdy  conduct  at  the 
House.  They  both  paused  for  a  moment. 

"Do  take  a  turn  with  Mabel  in  the  park,"  said  Sir 
Charles.  "It  will  refresh  you." 

"Remember  we  are  due  at  the  opera  to-night," 
Lady  Elizabeth  said,  as  she  rose.  Sir  Charles  pro 
tested.  "  But  it's  just  why  I'm  going  myself,"  Lady 
Elizabeth  confessed.  "I'll  send  the  carnage  back 
for  Mabel." 

A  few  minutes  later  Diana  and  Mabel  entered  the 
park.  The  pungent  smell  of  the  damp  earth  filled 
the  air.  Great  crimson  and  yellow  pools  of  color 
dotted  the  ground;  they  were  the  battered  -  down 
blossoms  of  the  afternoon.  Some  stronger  plants 
than  the  others  were  lifting  their  swaying  stems. 
The  paths  were  covered  with  bruised  leaves,  and 
from  the  branches  came  the  drip-drip  of  the  gleam 
ing  rain-drops.  At  times  under  interlaced  branches  it 
seemed  as  though  the  storm  still  continued,  so  heavy 
was' the  splashing  of  the  drenched  trees.  The  usually 
crowded  meeting-ground  of  fashion  was  practically 
deserted;  even  the  guards  had  not  left  their  corners  of 
refuge.  Here  and  there  a  stray  gardener  in  a  by-path 
was  pityingly  regarding  his  damaged  beds. 

22 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

The  fresh,  wet  air  blew  against  Diana's  face  and 
calmed  her  troubled  spirit.  Mabel  linked  her  arm 
through  Diana's:  neither  spoke.  On  and  on  they 
walked,  in  and  out  of  deserted  side-paths,  until  a  turn 
in  the  road  brought  them  opposite  to  the  Serpentine 
Bridge,  and  they  faced  the  public  driveway  of  the 
park.  A  gust  of  wind  blew  across  the  ground  a 
deluge  of  broken  boughs;  it  caused  them  to  hesitate 
on  the  edge  of  the  crossing.  Mabel  started  forward 
as  a  cab  dashed  towards  them  at  a  tremendous 
speed. 

"Why,  Di,  there's  Henry  in  that  hansom,"  Mabel 
gasped,  as  she  blew  a  tangle  of  loosened  hair  out  of 
her  eyes. 

But  Diana  could  only  see  the  occupant  nearest  to 
her  in  the  cab — it  was  a  woman  with  a  strangely 
interesting  foreign  face. 

"Nonsense,"  she  answered,  as  she  held  firm  the 
wind-blown  hat.  "Henry  is  in  the  city.  You  are 
mistaken,  dear." 

As  she  spoke  the  storm  began  afresh.  The  wind 
blew  the  sodden  blossom  leaves  and  broken  branches 
into  a  hurricane  cloud  around  them.  Grasping 
Mabel  by  the  hand,  Diana  made  her  way  against  the 
violence  of  the  wind  and  finally  reached  the  entrance 
to  the  park.  In  the  rush  of  keen  air  and  the  fight 
against  it,  everything  else  was  forgotten.  They 
quickly  reached  the  house,  and  Diana  saw  Mabel 
drive  away  in  the  shelter  of  the  waiting  carriage.  A 
few  minutes  later  she  was  in  her  own  room. 
3  23 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

She  loosened  her  long,  brown  hair,  and  kneeling 
before  the  glowing  fire  held  the  wet  coils  to  its  warmth. 
On  her  bed  lay  a  gown  to  be  worn  that  night,  and  the 
light  from  the  fire  cast  a  delicate  sheen  over  its  folds. 
It  flickered  and  blazed  with  merry  bursts  of  flame,  light 
ing  up  the  old-fashioned  chintz  draperies  of  the  quaint 
ly  furnished  room.  Through  the  closed  window  she 
could  hear  the  faint  splutter  of  the  rain  on  the  case 
ment.  As  she  leaned  against  the  tall  chair  close  to 
the  fireplace,  a  soft,  warm  languor  stole  over  her 
and  the  tension  of  her  mind  relaxed.  The  beauty 
of  her  present  life  stretched  out  innumerable  magic 
wands  that  lulled  into  insensibility  the  frightened 
thoughts  of  the  afternoon.  Soothed  by  the  warmth 
and  comfort  of  the  room  after  the  fatigue  of  her  walk 
against  the  gale  in  the  park,  she  abandoned  herself 
to  pleasant,  intangible  dreams.  A  knock  at  the  door 
aroused  her. 

It  was  her  aunt's  maid,  who  carried  a  large  box  of 
flowers.  Diana  opened  them;  they  were  from  Henry. 
Again  they  reiterated  his  apologies  for  the  afternoon's 
disappointment.  The  perfume  of  the  gardenias  filled 
the  room  as  she  sank  into  a  chair  before  her  dressing- 
table  and  buried  her  face  in  the  masses  of  delicate 
blossoms.  The  quiet  servant  gathered  up  the  tangled 
hair. 

"Her  ladyship  would  like  you  to  come  to  her  room 
before  you  leave  for  the  opera,"  she  said,  as  she  drew 
the  brush  across  the  soft  brown  locks. 

Diana  did  not  reply. 

24 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Yes,  she  was  admitting  to  herself  she  had  been 
unreasonable,  as  her  father  said.  Life  was  beautiful 
and  wonderful,  and  she  meant  to  gather  all  its  sweet 
ness  and  bloom. 


CHAPTER  III 

rain  that  battered  down  the  glory  of  color  Into 
JL  the  soaked  earth  of  the  park  had  slashed  and 
beaten  black,  struggling  lines  against  the  gray  stone 
wall  of  the  buildings  in  Lincoln's  Inn.  The  radiance 
of  the  sun  never  wholly  penetrated  the  court,  but  to 
day  the  old  place  seemed  like  a  tomb.  In  one  of  the 
forbidding-looking  dwellings,  in  his  solicitor's  cham 
bers,  sat  Lord  Kerhill.  He  glanced  around  the  silent 
room,  and  aimlessly  took  in  the  array  of  large  tin 
boxes,  with  their  painted  family  names,  piled  high  on 
the  shelves  encircling  the  walls.  Conspicuous  among 
them  was  his  own.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  un 
attractive  pieces  of  solid  mahogany  and  some  large 
leather  chairs,  the  room  was  almost  empty.  Its 
ugliness  jarred  him.  As  he  sat  there,  his  face  in 
repose  showed  that  the  years  had  given  an  added 
touch  of  bitterness  to  his  expression.  He  still  re 
tained  his  well-cut  features,  and  their  beauty  of  line 
was  only  a  little  marred  by  a  certiin  heaviness  that 
had  recently  developed.  His  dark  mustache  hid  the 
weak  mouth  with  its  suggestion  of  sensuality;  indeed, 
the  whole  man  showed  a  strong  tendency  towards 
grossness  as  yet  only  noticeable  to  the  careful  observer. 

26 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

He  still  had  the  ineffable  quality  of  charm,  when  he 
willed  to  exert  it,  which  made  his  selfishness  seem  to 
many  only  the  outcome  of  impulsive  youthfulness. 
In  a  shamefaced  way  he  admitted  to  himself  now  that 
he  was  in  the  wrong  and  that  he  had  stupidly  involved 
his  affairs,  but  he  comforted  himself  in  the  same 
moment,  with  the  fatuousness  of  self-indulgence,  that 
everything  would  work  out  all  right.  To  tide  over 
this  difficulty  or  adjust  and  evade  for  a  time  the  de 
mand  of  the  hour  had  been  his  policy  for  so  long  that 
he  could  not  realize  that  an  end  was  possible  to  the 
long  tether  he  so  often  abused. 

He  had  come  in  response  to  an  urgent  summons. 
Opposite  him,  deeply  absorbed  in  some  papers,  sat 
Johnston  Petrie,  the  trusted  solicitor  of  the  Kerhill 
family  since  Henry's  father  came  into  the  title.  He 
was  a  large,  powerfully  built  man  of  fifty-five,  with  a 
massive  head,  piercing  black  eyes  under  shaggy  eye 
brows,  and  close-cropped  iron-gray  curls  above  the 
shrewd  face.  Henry  rose  impatiently  to  go. 

As  he  did  so,  Petrie  lifted  his  glasses  on  their  black 
ribbon  to  his  eyes,  and  said,  "I'm  exceedingly  sorry, 
your  Lordship,  but  you  must  give  me  time  to  look 
more  closely  into  that  affair  before  I  can  venture  a 
final  opinion  as  to  the  condition  of  the  estate.  Be 
sides,  I  have  several  other  matters  of  the  gravest  im 
portance  to  question  you  about;  they  pertain  to  some 
business  transactions  you  made  recently  without  my 
knowledge,  while  you  were  abroad." 

He  motioned  his  lordship  to  a  chair  as  though  to 

27 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

pursue  deeper  the  conversation  and  drew  several 
documents  from  a  drawer.  Henry  Kerhill  fidgeted. 

"It's  impossible,  Petrie.  Next  week,  after  the 
wedding,  or  after  we  return  from  Scotland,  I'll  have 
leisure  then  to  discuss  these  things  with  you,  and  I 
really  mean  this  time  to  have  you  adjust  everything 
and  set  me  quite  straight." 

Johnston  Petrie  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Henry  continued,  "I've  been  care 
less,  but  I  mean  to  pull  up.  I'll  start  fair  from  next 
week." 

Johnston  Petrie  looked  up  sharply.  He  knew 
more  of  his  client's  career  than  Henry  cared  to  re 
member.  He  had  known  him  from  boyhood,  and  his 
shrewd  summing  up  of  human  nature  could  see  only 
pitfalls  ahead  for  Lady  Elizabeth's  son.  He  had 
tried  in  every  way  to  stop  the  reckless  living  of  his 
client.  From  the  incessant  demands  made  on  the 
estate  for  large  sums  of  ready  money  he  knew  that 
Henry  Wynnegate,  irritated  by  the  conservative  prin 
ciples  of  his  firm,  had  used  outside  help  to  prevent  his 
family  adviser  from  obtaining  knowledge  of  some 
recent  speculations. 

Long  ago  Johnston  Petrie  would  have  asked  to  be 
released  from  the  responsibilities  of  the  Kerhill  affairs, 
but  for  a  loyal  devotion  to  his  dead  client,  the  late 
Earl,  and  a  desire  to  protect  Lady  Elizabeth's  fast 
diminishing  rights.  He  was  not  in  the  least  deceived 
by  Henry's  machinations,  but  wilfully  allowed  him 
self  to  seem  blind  to  certain  matters.  He  wished  to 

28 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

be  able  to  keep  his  hand  at  the  lever,  and  argued  with 
his  brother  that  the  end  justified  the  means. 

Lady  Elizabeth  in  a  recent  interview  had  assured 
him  that  the  coming  marriage  would  be  the  turning- 
point  in  Henry's  career.  Nevertheless,  he  feared  her 
judgment.  Something  in  Henry's  attitude  to  -  day 
had  made  him  more  apprehensive;  it  had  been  im 
possible  to  pin  him  down  to  a  serious  consideration  of 
his  affairs.  Petrie  determined  to  venture  a  final 
effort,  by  enrolling  his  brother's  services  to  strengthen 
his  admonitions. 

"Lord  Kerhill,"  he  said.  "My  brother  is  also  most 
anxious  to  see  you  regarding  some  stocks  you  asked 
his  advice  about."  He  touched  a  bell;  a  clerk  an 
swered  from  an  adjoining  room. 

"Ask  Mr.  Malcolm  Petrie  to  come  to  us.  Say  that 
the  Earl  of  Kerhill  is  here." 

Henry  chafed  under  the  calm  firmness  of  his 
solicitor.  He  had  come  in  answer  to  an  imperative 
note,  and  the  discussion  of  his  complicated  affairs  was 
extremely  disagreeable.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  con 
tinue  it  further.  He  moved  to  the  door  as  Malcolm 
Petrie  entered;  a  smaller  counterpart  of  his  brother, 
and  a  silent  member  of  the  firm,  he  took  the  same 
personal  interest  in  the  Kerhill  affairs  that  his  brother 
did.  As  he  started  to  speak  he  was  stopped  by 
Henry. 

"It's  no  use.  I  can  wait  no  longer.  A  most  im 
portant  engagement  demands  my  leaving  at  once. 
Advise  me  by  letter — it  will  reach  me  to-morrow." 

29 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

And  before  either  of  the  men  could  urge  upon  him  th& 
necessity  of  being  allowed  to  advise  him  on  certain 
negotiations,  he  had  reached  the  outer  door  of  the 
chambers,  mounted  the  few  steps  leading  to  the  court, 
and  was  in  the  square  where  his  cab  was  waiting.  He 
cursed  the  dreariness  of  the  day  as  the  rain  splashed 
him.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  They  had  de 
tained  him  far  too  long,  these  croaking  fogies  in  their 
stuffy  office.  His  hand  fumbled  in  his  pocket  where 
lay  a  letter  with  a  message  not  to  be  disregarded. 
On  its  arrival  at  his  club  early  in  the  afternoon  the 
note  to  Diana  had  been  despatched. 

The  fury  of  haste  that  had  made  him  so  eager  to 
escape  from  his  business  interview  now  dec^rted  him. 
The  rain  drenched  him  in  warm  torrents.  The  driver 
on  the  box  was  a  running  stream,  and  from  the  horse 
came  clouds  of  heavy  steam. 

Then  the  momentary  irresolution  passed  as  he  gave 
his  orders  to  the  impassive  cabman.  He  leaned  back 
in  his  cab,  tearing  into  shreds  the  mauve  letter  with  its 
gold  monogram  as  he  muttered,  "  It's  for  the  last  time, 
by  God."  The  hansom  started  with  a  jerk.  It 
rattled  down  an  alley.  To  Henry  the  damp,  dismal 
court  looked  more  than  ever  like  a  graveyard.  He 
was  glad  when  they  turned  into  the  vortex  of  the 
Strand. 

That  night  at  the  opera,  a  new  singer  was  to  make 
her  debut  in  "Carmen."  In  Paris  and  America  this 
sloe-eyed  Italian  had  made  the  sensation  of  the  half- 

3° 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

century  in  her  creation  of  the  gypsy  wanton.  The 
brilliant  throng  in  Covent  Garden  was  alive  with 
anticipation.  The  royalties  were  expected;  indeed, 
the  queen  herself  had  especially  commanded  this  re 
ception  for  the  gifted  woman  whom  she  had  honored 
as  her  guest  on  the  Riviera,  where  this  singing  Rachel 
had  entranced  her  with  the  folk-songs  and  lullabies 
of  her  beloved  country. 

All  that  the  London  season  could  assemble  of  wit, 
beauty,  and  distinction  was  gathered  in  the  Opera- 
House.  The  tiers  of  boxes  were  filling  unusually 
early.  Near  the  stage  sat  the  Prime-Minister,  a  man 
of  strong  artistic  perceptions  and  a  writer  of  extraor 
dinary  talent.  His  face,  with  the  marked  cleft  in 
the  square  chin,  looked  less  dreamy  than  usual  to 
night,  and  the  large,  pale-blue  eyes,  amusedly  sur 
veyed  the  house.  He  seemed  to  have  slipped  off  the 
yoke  of  tangled  politics  as  he  turned  to  his  secretary, 
who  was  pointing  out  to  him  the  celebrities  in  the 
stalls. 

"There  is  the  delightful  American  whom  I  met 
last  week  at  Lord  Blight's."  As  he  spoke,  he  bowed 
to  the  new  American  favorite,  Mrs.  Hobart  Chichester 
Chichester  Jones,  a  radiant  figure  in  scarlet,  who 
found  many  glasses  levelled  at  her. 

"Only  an  American  would  dress  so  originally," 
the  minister  replied. 

The  American  wore  a  gown  of  clinging  scarlet 
fabric,  the  decidedly  low-cut  corsage  showing  the 
perfection  of  the  white  shoulders  and  arms.  Around 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

her  throat  she  had  twisted  one  long  rope  of  uncut 
pearls  and  diamonds  that  reached  below  her  waist, 
and  in  the  soft,  waving,  red-gold  hair  she  had  arranged 
some  daring  scarlet  geraniums.  With  her  pale  skin 
and  great  green  eyes  she  enchanted  London  by  her 
unusual  type.  Near  her  was  the  famous  story-book 
Duchess,  as  the  most  popular  of  the  younger  beauties 
was  called.  "Too  good  to  be  true,"  Truth  declared 
her,  and  indeed  she  seemed  to  have  been  especially 
created  to  confirm  the  mode  of  the  old-fashioned  ro 
mances  extolling  the  grace  and  loveliness  cf  an  English 
Duchess.  The  crowd  noticed  the  famous  rubies  that 
shone  like  tiny  flames  against  the  white  gown. 

Here  and  there  a  Dowager  gleamed  like  a  shelf  in  a 
Bond  Street  jeweller's  shop,  so  promiscuous  was  her 
array  of  gems.  The  younger  school  of  beauties  with 
more  wisdom  employed  their  jewels  differently,  using 
them  as  an  added  tone  of  color  or  a  touch  of  brilliance 
to  a  costume.  In  the  stalls  the  art  world  was  well 
represented.  Painters  and  writers  with  a  sprinkling 
of  actors  and  actresses,  who  were  not  playing,  were 
on  hand  to-night  to  greet  the  new-comer.  From  the 
gallery  rail  a  crowd  of  eager,  swarthy  faces  peered, 
impatiently  gesticulating  to  one  another,  because  of 
the  failure  of  the  curtain  to  ascend  at  the  given  time. 
It  was  known  that  the  prima-donna  was  a  capricious 
creature,  often  swayed  by  a  mere  whim  from  making 
her  appearance.  Once  the  death  of  a  mocking-bird 
had  postponed  her  debut  as  Marguerite.  Would  she 
really  appear  ? 

32 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

As  the  royalties  entered  the  box,  the  excitement 
was  at  fever-heat.  Henry  with  his  mother  impatiently 
awaited  Diana's  arrival. 

The  overture  began  its  sensuous,  stirring  appeal, 
and  before  the  cigarette-girl  crossed  the  bridge  in  the 
street  scene,  every  seat  and  box  was  occupied. 

The  singer  made  the  ill-starred  Carmen  a  bewitch 
ing  and  compelling  wanton.  Who  that  saw  her  will 
ever  forget  her  delicious  cajolery  as  she  urged  the 
bewitched  Don  Jose  to  loosen  the  ropes  that  bound 
her  ?  With  her  Habanera  she  eclipsed  all  predeces 
sors  and  made  the  role  irrevocably  hers.  The  first 
act  ended  with  a  storm  of  bravas  from  the  gallery 
and  vociferous  applause  from  the  rest  of  the  house. 

It  was  not  until  the  tumultuous  ovation  over  the 
first  act  had  ceased  that  Diana's  presence  was  noticed 
by  the  audience.  Accompanied  by  her  father,  she 
had  arrived  at  the  close  of  the  overture,  and  had  only 
time  to  slip  into  her  place  before  the  curtain  arose. 
The  walk  in  the  rain  had  given  her  delicate  skin  a 
touch  of  color  and  heightened  the  beauty  of  her  tender 
eyes,  "so  deeply  blue  that  they  were  black/'  as  Lord 
Patrick  Illington  described  them  on  his  first  meeting 
at  her  presentation  at  Court.  Her  bands  of  straight 
hair  were  wound  around  her  head;  pale-green  dra 
peries  encircled  her  lithesome  body,  and  the  gardenia 
blossoms  in  her  hair  gave  her  a  fleeting  likeness  to 
the  water-sprite  Undine.  In  the  horseshoe  of  fash 
ionable  mandaines  the  fragrance  of  her  beauty  was 
like  that  of  a  dew-sprayed  rose. 

33 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Mrs.  Hobart  Chichester  Chichester  Jones,  with  her 
usual  common-sense  of  seeing  things  as  they  were, 
leaned  towards  the  man  beside  her. 

"That  is  a  beauty — the  real  thing;  no  chic,  no 
gowning,  no  Paris  wisdom  of  make-up,  but  a  beauty, 
I'm  glad  I've  seen  it."  She  sank  back  as  though 
philosophically  preparing  for  a  Waterloo. 

From  his  box  the  Prince  noticed  the  daughter  of 
Sir  Charles  Marjoribanks  whose  services  in  diplo 
macy  in  his  youth  were  not  forgotten.  Forthwith  an 
equerry  was  sent  to  Sir  Charles  and  Diana  inviting 
them  to  visit  the  royal  presence. 

Diana  was  the  social  novelty  of  the  season.  The 
Prime-Minister  remembered  his  classics  as  he  dreamily 
gazed  at  her  and  murmured,  "Is  this  the  face  that 
launched  a  thousand  ships  ?" 

From  the  back  of  the  box,  Henry  watched  Diana's 
impression  on  the  house.  His  eyebrows  were  drawn 
into  horns  of  suppressed  temper  and  there  was  an  air 
of  brutal  determination  in  his  bearing.  Gradually 
his  expression  cleared.  Diana's  beauty  that  night 
stirred  the  best  in  him.  He  tried  to  dismiss  the 
events  of  the  afternoon;  he  would  be  worthy  of  this 
child-woman.  He  set  his  shoulders  square  as  though 
preparing  to  fight  unseen  forces. 

"Lucky  fellow,  Kerhill,v  one  man  confided  to  an 
other  as  they  watched  the  crowd's  sweeping  glasses 
pause  constantly  at  Diana  Marjoribanks's  box  and 
saw  the  triumphant  look  on  Henry's  face. 

The  sinuous,  commanding  Carmen  had  reached 

34 


THE  SQUAW  MAN 

her  triumphant  entry  with  the  toreador  when  the 
mad  Don  Jose's  dagger  drew  the  purple  stain  on  the 
gold  -  embroidered  gown.  Over  the  house  a  spell 
bound  silence  reigned.  As  from  an  animal  wounded 
to  the  death,  low  sounds  of  agonized  pain  came  from 
the  great  actress — she  forgot  to  sing,  and  the  house 
forgot  that  she  was  a  singer  in  an  opera  comique. 
For  the  moment  it  faced  the  realistic  truth  of  a  grim 
tragedy. 

Excited  and  intoxicated  by  the  sensuous  music, 
Diana  was  hardly  conscious  that  the  opera  was  over. 
She  was  like  a  child  with  the  world  for  a  great,  colored 
balloon.  As  she  came  down  the  winding  staircase  she 
was  almost  happy,  and  turned  to  smile  at  Henry,  who 
was  by  her  side.  As  she  did  so  she  saw  him  frown. 
They  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  found 
their  way  half -barred  by  a  dark,  foreign -looking 
woman  robed  in  a  spun-gold  gown.  Diana  noticed 
the  insolent,  amused  expression  on  her  handsome 
face,  but  at  that  moment  her  attention  was  diverted 
by  some  one  who  spoke  to  her,  and  she  only  vaguely 
noticed  Henry's  constrained  bow,  and  the  sudden 
brutal  flame  in  his  eyes. 

Only  later,  as  she  sleepily  looked  over  at  the  park 
in  the  dim  light,  did  she  remember  that  the  woman  in 
cloth  of  gold  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  was 
strangely  like  the  vivid,  foreign-looking  woman  who 
had  flashed  past  her  in  the  park  as  the  storm  broke. 

The  wedding  took  place  at  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square.  It  was  the  first  brilliant  wedding  of  the 

35 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

season  and  royalty  honored  it,  not  by  sending  a 
deputy,  but  by  its  personal  presence.  Diana  passed 
through  the  gay  pageant  and  heard  the  conventional 
words  of  well-wishers  like  one  in  a  dream.  She  re 
membered  being  changed  into  a  going-away  frock — 
the  curious  street  crowd  gathering  around  her  as  she 
left  the  reception  at  the  Park  Lane  house.  Then 
as  she  entered  the  brougham  she  was  conscious  of 
Henry's  face  drawn  close  to  hers,  and  the  old  fright 
ened  instincts  that  her  father  only  a  week  ago  had 
soothed  and  quelled  again  took  possession  of  hen 
A  great  wall  of  fear  closed  in  about  her. 

At  last  the  carriage  reached  the  station. 

Diana  leaned  back  in  their  compartment  in  the 
train  northbound  for  Scotland.  The  bustle  of  the 
outgoing  crowds  was  holding  Henry's  attention  as 
she  glanced  over  the  afternoon  paper,  which  gave  a 
prominent  position  to  the  brilliant  wedding  that  had 
taken  place  at  St.  George's  only  a  few  hours  ago. 

Suddenly  she  espied  a  name  that  made  her  heart 
leap.  A  brief  paragraph  told  of  the  reward  to  be 
conferred  on  Captain  James  Wynnegate,  but  a  longer 
account  followed,  giving  details  of  his  gallant  work  in 
the  Northwestern  Hills. 

A  great  longing  to  see  the  friend  of  her  childhood 
came  over  her.  She  was  ashamed  that  she  had  for 
gotten  him  so  long. 

Henry  entered  the  compartment,  the  guard  closed 
the  door,  and  the  train  started  on  its  journey.  Her 
husband  spoke  to  her  and  she  answered  him  in  an 

36 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

absent  manner.  The  sudden  remembrance  of  her 
old  playmate  grew  vividly  and  seemed  to  blot  out 
all  else,  as,  following  on  her  self-reproach  for  forget 
ting  him,  came  the  thought,  growing  more  poignant1 
"Did  Jim  remember  her?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

JIM  lay  in  the  hospital  ward  convalescing.  Of 
the  march  back  to  the  nearest  hospital  post,  after 
the  fight  which  has  taken  place  three  months  before 
in  the  Northwestern  Hills,  when  his  name  had  been 
flashed  over  Europe  in  praise  of  his  magnificent  ser 
vice  to  his  flag,  his  mind  held  no  memory. 

Night  after  night  in  his  delirium  he  lived  again 
through  the  scenes  of  the  fight  that  had  brought  glory 
to  his  name.  Now  it  was  the  evening  before  the  battle, 
when,  acting  upon  information  brought  by  the  spy 
Rham-shi,  he  and  his  men  kept  their  long  vigil,  sitting 
silently  in  their  saddles  the  entire  night  awaiting  the 
onslaught  of  the  fanatical  natives  across  the  hill. 
Again  it  was  early  dawn,  and  in  his  fever-tossed  dreams 
he  heard  the  roar  of  the  voices  as  the  assault  began; 
again  he  climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  and  saw  the 
dreaded  gun  of  the  enemy  that  was  riddling  his  men. 
On — on  he  mounted.  He  felt  the  warm  blood  ooze 
down  his  body,  the  mists  swim  before  his  eyes,  and 
the  stinging  pain  pierce  his  side.  In  despair  that  he 
might  not  reach  the  monster  in  time  to  prevent  it 
from  completing  its  deadly  work,  his  cry  of  agony 
often  rang  out  in  the  silent  room. 

38 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Oh,  God,  God,  my  men — my  splendid  men — give 
me  courage!" 

Then  his  thoughts  would  wander  to  the  hours  when 
he  lay  on  the  ground  with  the  blood  dripping  from  his 
wound,  and  with  the  loaded  carbine  snatched  from  a 
fallen  trooper  he  brought  down  a  tribesman  at  the 
enemy's  gun.  As  he  fell,  another  sprang  forward — 
there  was  another  shot  and  still  another  as  the  tribes 
men  went  down  before  his  sure  aim.  There  was  but 
one  thought  in  his  brain — to  prevent  the  firing  of  the 
gun,  the  devastation  of  his  men.  Difficult  and  more 
difficult  it  grew  to  lift  the  weakening  arm.  He  could 
feel  as  he  tossed  on  his  couch  the  gurgle  of  the  blood 
that  glued  him  to  the  ground.  He  made  an  effort  to 
rise  to  his  knees.  Another  devil  was  about  to  load 
the  gun.  He  must  catch  this  one  again — he  must. 
It  was  his  last  cartridge.  He  stretched  out  his  stiffen 
ing  arm  feebly;  he  tried  to  pull  the  trigger,  but  his 
strength  failed  him.  Then — one  supreme  effort,  and 
a  report  flashed  through  the  air.  The  rest  was  a 
blank,  but  he  had  carried  the  day. 

These  delirious  hours  passed  and  there  followed  a 
vague  mid-air  suspension  of  existence.  Of  tangible 
things  he  was  no  part.  The  years  of  fighting  were 
forgotten.  He  was  back  in  the  Fairies'  Corner  with 
Diana,  he  saw  the  giant  trees  bending  and  whis 
pering  in  the  starlight.  The  smell  of  the  damp  earth 
from  the  sun-hidden  enclosure  filled  the  sick-room,  and 
the  vibrant,  strong,  compelling  cry  of  the  night -jar 
echoed  in  his  dreams.  Again,  he  and  Diana  listened 
4  39 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

for  the  flutter  of  the  fairies'  wings  in  the  tree -tops. 
Gradually,  even  these  mists  cleared  from  his  brain, 
and  to-day  he  waited  with  impatience  the  surgeon, 
who  was  to  decide  whether  he  might  obtain  his  leave. 

The  doctor  found  him  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  lean 
hands  idly  resting  on  the  coverlet. 

"Well,  doctor,"  he  asked,  "what  is  the  verdict? 
Am  I  to  be  allowed  to  join  my  regiment  ?" 

The  surgeon  looked  into  the  brave  eyes.  Jim  was  a 
wraith  of  the  man  who  had  gone  into  battle.  The 
drawn  cheek-bones  were  like  high  lights  in  the  sunken 
face,  the  gauntness  of  the  body  could  be  discerned 
under  the  bedclothes,  but  the  unflinching  eyes  held 
the  same  expression  of  everlasting  courage.  The 
doctor  took  Jim's  long,  meagre  hand. 

"We  are  done  with  you,  Wynnegate.  You  fought 
a  bigger  battle  here  on  this  cot  than  you  did  yon  day 
on  the  Hills,  but  you've  won." 

Jim  only  smiled. 

"Your  regiment  is  ordered  home  within  a  month, 
and  you  must  go  to  your  station  to  join  it.  Fighting 
will  be  a  little  out  of  your  line  for  a  while.  I  think 
you'll  find  you  need  England — a  summer  of  sunshine 
in  the  open  fields.  Then  come  back  later  to  us  again." 
A  suspicious  moisture  clouded  his  glasses.  He  was 
a  man  many  years  older  than  Jim,  and  he  had  seen 
his  own  boy  go  down  at  the  head  of  his  troops.  Still, 
with  the  instinctive  loyalty  of  the  Englishman  to  his 
country,  he  concluded,  "We  need  such  men  as  you, 
my  son." 

40 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

The  surgeon  moved  away.  Jim  closed  his  eyes. 
Presently  he  looked  up. 

He  saw  the  long  line  of  wounded  men  with  here  and 
there  a  wasted,  propped-up  figure — the  quiet  nurses 
passing  and  repassing.  He  began  to  feel  the  pulsat 
ing  call  of  life  again.  For  him  the  sick-room  exist-  • 
ence  was  ended;  soon  he  would  be  back  in  the  Fairies' 
Corner;  he  could  hear  the  flutter  of  their  wings. 

The  men  were  in  the  mess.  Dunlap  and  Singleton 
were  stretched  out  in  long,  wicker  -  basket  chairs. 
Tomlinson  was  talking  in  an  excited  voice  with  several 
officers  of  the  Tenth  Hussars.  "It  means  that  Jim 
will  receive  a  mention  and  a  damn  fine  one,"  Tom 
linson  was  saying,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
gulped  down  his  gin-and-seltzer.  Singleton  called  to 
the  orderly  to  bring  a  whiskey-and-soda.  Dunlap 
leaned  forward  to  Tomlinson  as  he  asked: 

"Is  that  absolutely  sure?  We  all  know  that  Jim 
has  done  fine  work  in  his  seven  years  here,  but  are 
the  powers  above  really  going  to  commend  his  last 
bit  of  pluck  ?" 

"The  powers  above,"  thundered  Tomlinson,  who 
loathed  being  doubted,  "not  only  mean  to  commend 
him,  but  they  mean  to  decorate  him  with  the  bronze 
cross  itself.  I  had  it  from  Watkins." 

A  long  whistle  greeted  this  bit  of  news.  Watkins 
was  not  apt  to  talk  without  positive  information. 

Tomlinson  was  fairly  bursting  with  enthusiasm  and 
importance.  For  him  station  life  in  India  meant 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

gossip — good  or  bad  news — so  long  as  it  was  news. 
He  could  work  himself  into  a  fever  of  enthusiasm,  get 
all  the  glory  out  of  another  man's  receiving  a  decora 
tion,  and  rejoice  as  though  it  had  been  given  to  himself. 
He  only  asked  that  it  should  occur  in  his  station. 
"Tommy,"  as  he  was  called,  had  been  known  to  in 
cite  blackballing  from  his  club  against  a  man  whom 
he  had  never  seen,  because  no  opposition  was  made. 
It  meant  news,  and  the  passing  of  the  word  from  one 
mess  to  another.  When  the  man  was  blackballed, 
Tomlinson,  in  a  high  fever  of  indignation,  sought 
the  downed  man  and  became  so  incensed  with  sym 
pathy  that  he  threatened  to  resign  from  a  club  that 
could  offer  such  indignities:  by  that  time  he  had  for 
gotten  that  he  had  caused  it.  At  the  moment  he  was 
basking  in  the  glory  of  Jim's  coming  honors.  He 
took  another  gin-and-seltzer. 

"By  George!  he  was  down  and  done  for  when  he 
came  here  from  the  hospital,"  Dunlap  said.  "Never 
saw  such  a  goner.  But  he's  picked  up  tremendously 
during  the  past  month." 

Singleton  took  his  whiskey- and -potash  from  the 
orderly. 

"Strange,"  he  continued,  as  he  sat  up,  glass  in  hand. 
"Wynnegate  is  so  eager  to  go  back:  never  saw  any 
thing  like  it.  Seems  as  though  this  illness  had 
knocked  soldiering  out  of  him,  and  he  was  such  a  keen 
one  before." 

"Mighty  fortunate  the  regiment's  time  was  up  and 
we're  ordered  home.  Talk  about  Jim's  being  glad— 

42 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Gad!  it  means  something  to  see  those  kiddies  of  mine,. 
Wonder   if  the   little    beggars    will    remember   me,'* 

OO  ' 

Dunlap  mused. 

After  three  gins  -  and  -  seltzers,  it  was  time  for 
Tomlinson  to  listen  to  Dunlap  about  his  children. 
He  had  heard  it  all  before.  He  had  come  from  his 
own  mess  with  the  news  about  Jim.  That  was  all 
that  interested  him,  so  he  got  up  to  go. 

"Who'll  play  polo  this  evening?"  he  asked. 

Singleton  promised  he  would. 

"I'll  walk  back  with  you,"  Tomlinson  said. 

They  started  to  leave,  but  catching  sight  of  an  orderly 
with  a  mail-bag,  Singleton  let  Tomlinson  go  on  alone. 

"See  you  at  six  for  polo,  Tommy;  and  I  say,  send 
any  of  our  fellows  in  that  you  see.  Tell  them  the  post 
is  in,"  he  called  as  he  saw  Jim's  long,  loose-jointed 
stride  across  the  road. 

A  blazing  sun  beat  down  on  Jim  as  he  crossed  to  the 
mess.  The  April  weather  was  anticipating  India's 
most  wearing  heat.  But  only  vaguely  he  noted  the 
ominous  lead-colored  sky,  with  its  promise  of  dust 
storms.  The  green  of  England  filled  his  vision. 
Since  the  days  in  the  hospital,  his  thoughts  had  re 
curred  incessantly  to  Diana.  A  picture  in  an  illus 
trated  paper,  picked  up  in  his  ward,  showed  him  Miss 
Diana  Marjoribanks  as  a  beautiful  young  girl — little 
Diana  no  longer.  There  was  the  same  Madonna  face, 
but  more  exquisitely  fair  than  the  child  he  had  left 
had  promised  to  be.  He  hardly  cared  to  admit  to 
himself  how  much  the  picture  had  stirred  him. 

43 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

When  he  entered  the  mess  he  found  the  men  in 
groups,  absorbed  in  their  letters.  Singleton  and 
Dunlap  both  called  to  him. 

"There  are  two  for  you,  Jim." 

Letters  did  not  often  come  his  way.  When  he  first 
left  England,  several  child's  letters  had  come  from 
Diana — these  he  had  answered.  He  never  heard 
from  Henry,  and  his  aunt  wrote  seldom. 

"Dinningfold."  He  saw  the  familiar  old  postmark. 
It  was  from  Lady  Elizabeth,  then.  Boyishly,  he 
fingered  its  ample  thickness.  It  was  good  of  her  to 
write  such  a  budget,  he  thought,  as  he  tore  it  open. 
The  chatter  of  voices  about  him  fell  unheeding  on  his 
ears  as  the  men  read  their  letters. 

"God!  Breese  is  dead — dropped  down  quite  sud 
denly  at  the  club,"  Singleton  remarked  as  he  turned 
a  page  of  the  letter  he  was  reading. 

His  words  were  almost  drowned  by  an  eager,  exult 
ing  cry.  Half  the  fellows  turned  toward  Dick 
Farninsby.  He  was  usually  so  quiet.  To-night  his 
young,  fair  face  was  the  color  of  a  puppy. 

"I've  come  into  the  money,"  he  stammered. 

Every  one  knew  that  Farninsby's  uncle  had  been 
an  old  reprobate  and  that  Dick  had  had  a  close  pinch 
on  his  meagre  allowance.  They  also  knew  that  a 
pretty  girl  was  waiting  for  him  at  home.  A  buzz  of 
congratulations  followed.  But  Jim  took  no  part  in 
them.  He  was  reading  his  aunt's  letter. 

"...  We  are  so  sorry  that  you  won't  be  home  in  time 
for  the  wedding.  Diana  and  Henry  are  to  be  married. 

44 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

It  will  be  a  London  wedding.  Diana  has  grown  into 
a  beautiful  girl  and  will  make  a  worthy  wife  for 
Henry  and  a  charming  mistress  of  Maudsley  Tow- 
ers " 

As  he  read,  the  page  became  a  dancing  mass  ot 
hieroglyphics.  The  men  were  beginning  to  light  their 
cigarettes  and  pipes  as  they  called  bits  of  news  to  one 
another  from  the  English  papers.  He  tried  hard  to 
make  the  strange  letters  shape  themselves  and  form 
words.  He  reread  them.  "Diana  and  Henry  are 
to  be  married."  He  turned  the  page.  "On  the 
3Oth  of  April,"  it  said.  To  -  day  was  the  ad  of 
May. 

Several  of  the  men  started  for  the  polo-fields.  Some 
one  called,  "What's  your  news,  Wynnegate  r"  He 
forgot  to  answer.  He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand 
and  left  the  mess.  Mechanically  he  put  the  un 
opened  letter  from  headquarters,  with  the  news  of  his 
brilliant  reward,  in  his  pocket.  Across  the  polo-fields 
he  could  see  the  heavy  atmosphere  gathering  in  great 
clouds.  A  dust-storm  was  nursing  its  imminent  wrath. 

It  all  seemed  far  away  from  the  Fairies'  Corner. 


CHAPTER  V 

SINCE  the  day  in  his  mess  when  Jim  read  the 
news  of  Diana's  approaching  marriage  to  Kenry, 
he  had  been  immersed  in  a  strange  dreariness  of 
feeling  and  a  curious  indifference  to  the  homeward- 
bound  journey.  Night  after  night  he  stood  alone 
on  the  forward -deck  of  the  Crocodile  bound  from 
Bombay  for  England,  and  heard  the  soldiers  singing 
their  camp-songs,  their  strong,  rough  voices  growing 
tender  as  they  sang  their  cockney  ballads  of  home. 
But  they  roused  no  responsive  echo  in  Jim;  watching 
the  Southern  Cross  in  the  sky,  his  thoughts  often 
drifted  back  to  the  seven  years  of  righting  with  their 
sun-scorched  days  of  fatigue  and  danger,  full  of  work 
that  drained  body  and  brain.  He  almost  wished  that 
he  were  returning  to  them. 

One  night  at  Ismailia  the  pendulum  of  his  emotions 
swung  back  from  this  indifference  to  the  first  hours 
of  joy  that  he  had  experienced  when  he  received  the 
news  that  his  regiment  was  ordered  back.  The  ship 
had  anchored  there  for  a  few  hours  to  obtain  supplies. 
With  Dunlap  and  Singleton  he  went  ashore  to  the 
little  hotel  with  its  Continental  atmosphere  of  cheap 
table  -  d'hote  dinners  and  slipshod  Italian  waiters. 

46 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

It  was  a  shaky  wooden  building,  built  around  an  in 
side  court,  with  balconies  over  which  clambered  in 
exuberance  pale,  waxy  tea-roses,  while  the  front  of 
the  building  hung  over  a  cypress-tree  garden. 

The  indifferently  good  but  pretentious  meal  was 
served  in  the  tiny  court.  Dunlap's  and  Singleton's 
boisterous  mood  jarred  Jim.  He  found  himself 
watching  the  other  guests  of  Monsieur  Carlos' 
hostelry.  At  adjacent  tables  parties  of  tourists  were 
making  merry  while  waiting  for  the  P.  &  O.  steamer 
to  carry  them  from  Cleopatra's  land  to  golden  Italy, 
and  from  a  dance-hall  came  the  fantastic  music  of  the 
nautch  women's  instruments.  In  half  an  hour  the 
hotel  was  empty  of  all  the  diners  save  Jim,  who  lin 
gered  until  the  shabby  proprietor,  Monsieur  Carlos, 
informed  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  that  after  ten  the 
court  was  closed,  but  the  verandas  were  at  Mon 
sieur's  disposal  for  his  kiimmel  and  cigarettes.  Jim 
ascended  the  creaking  staircase  to  the  broad  veranda 
partly  hidden  from  the  road  by  its  screen  of  blooming 
roses  gleaming  like  stars  against  the  shadowed  foliage. 
Here  and  there  a  tight,  pink-tipped  bud  shone  like 
a  tiny  flame. 

The  moon  had  risen  and  illumined  the  entire  place 
with  an  uncanny  brilliance,  turning  the  night  into  an 
unreal  day.  Jim  sank  into  a  chair.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  the  perfume  of  the  rose-trees.  In  the  dis 
tance  he  could  hear  the  barbarous  clash  of  the  dan 
cing  women's  cymbals.  It  was  their  trade-night  with 
two  ships  in  the  harbor.  Jim  took  from  his  pocket  a 

47 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

leather  portmonnaie  and  drew  from  it  the  picture  of 
Diana  that  he  had  cut  from  the  paper  in  the  hospital. 
He  had  never  willingly  thought  of  her  since  the  day 
he  received  his  aunt's  letter.  As  he  sat  on  the  deserted 
veranda,  with  the  torn  page  lying  on  his  knee,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  sudden,  intangible  feeling  of  appre 
hension.  Diana  was  the  tenderest  memory  of  his 
boyhood.  Why  did  he  fear  this  marriage  with 
Henry  ?  Vainly  he  studied  the  picture,  trying  to  gain 
from  the  cheap  illustration  some  knowledge  of  the 
woman  into  which  Diana  had  grown.  He  tried 
honestly  to  face  the  truth  of  his  great  anxiety  concern 
ing  the  marriage.  He  knew  that  through  his  con 
valescence  when  the  longing  to  go  home  had  over 
mastered  the  soldier  in  him,  the  thought  of  renewing 
his  friendship  with  Diana  had  been  his  happiest  an 
ticipation.  He  sought  to  reassure  himself  that  his 
disappointment  was  selfishness  —  that  he  feared  to 
find  Diana  absorbed  in  new  interests,  with  his  place 
completely  crowded  out  of  her  life.  Then  a  vision 
of  Henry,  sullen  and  defiant  as  he  had  last  seen  him, 
flashed  before  him.  .  .  .  Yet  might  not  Henry's  charac 
ter  have  been  redeemed  by  his  love  for  Diana  ?  Jim 
knew  that  the  meagre  fortune  of  Sir  Charles  Marjori- 
banks  could  not  be  a  material  factor  in  the  marriage. 
This  proved  his  most  reassuring  thought.  Then  his 
memory  reverted  to  Diana,  and  he  recalled  the  child 
Di,  who  had  clung  to  him  on  the  morning  of  his  de 
parture  and  begged  him  to  return.  He  remembered 
how  as  a  boy  he  had  often  played  that  he  was  her 

48 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

knight,  and  fought  the  unseen  foes  that  were  supposed 
to  lurk  in  the  alleyways  of  the  giant  trees.  Was  it 
a  prophetic  vision  of  the  future  ? 

He  rose  from  his  chair.  Sweeping  clouds  were 
rolling  over  the  pale  moon.  The  desolation  of  the 
place  grew  more  terrible. 

Far  out  at  sea  he  could  see  the  black  phantom  ship 
now  appearing,  now  disappearing.  It  seemed  at  the 
mercy  of  the  heavy  vapors  that  at  times  touched  its 
topmasts.  The  desire  to  reach  England  again  grew 
strong  in  him.  He  felt  he  had  a  purpose  to  fulfil. 

A  half-hour  passed.  Suddenly  the  moon  swept 
from  under  a  heavy  cloud,  shaped  like  the  wing  of 
a  monster  bird.  Across  the  road  he  could  see  the 
straggling  groups  of  travellers  returning  from  the 
festivities.  Their  tired,  excited  voices  reached  him, 
and  he  was  glad  to  escape  from  the  hotel  and  make 
his  way  to  the  waiting  dinghy.  Dunlap  and  Single 
ton  joined  him,  and  as  he  leaned  back  in  the  skifF, 
strong  and  incessant  as  the  incoming  tide  that  beat 
against  the  boat  grew  the  strength  of  his  resolve. 
Diana  should  obtain  happiness  if  he  could  serve  her 
to  that  end. 

Three  weeks  later  the  Crocodile  swung  into  the 
harbor  at  Portsmouth.  A  symphony  in  blues  and 
greens  greeted  Jim's  eyes  as  they  anchored  within 
sight  of  the  Victory.  An  English  June  sky  with 
riotous  blues — from  the  palest  flaky  azure  to  the  deep 
est  turquoise — hung  in  the  heavens  over  a  vivid  green 
sea.  The  very  atmosphere  seemed  floating  about  in 

49 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

nebulous  clouds  of  pearly  tinted  indigo.  To  Jim  it 
was  like  the  beauty  of  no  other  land. 

Towards  evening  Jim  reached  London.  The 
town  was  alive  with  the  roar  and  rush  of  hansoms 
and  crowded  'buses  carrying  the  day's  workers  to 
their  homes.  His  cab  turned  from  St.  James's  Park 
into  the  Mall  towards  his  club.  How  he  loved  the 
gray,  majestic  beauty  of  the  place! 

The  expected  arrival  of  the  Crocodile  had  been  duly 
noticed  by  the  papers,  and  his  part  in  the  brilliant 
work  of  his  regiment  warmly  commended.  At  the 
club  he  found  letters  of  welcome  awaiting  him. 
Among  them  was  one  from  Diana,  urging  him  to 
come  to  them  at  once.  It  seemed  the  letter  of  a 
woman  calm  in  her  established  womanhood.  "Henry 
and  I,"  it  said,  "will  be  so  happy  to  see  you  to-morrow 
at  luncheon  at  two  o'clock.  Do  come."  The  letter 
further  told  him  that  Lady  Elizabeth  and  Mabel 
were  staying  at  the  Towers.  "Henry  wanted  a 
town-house,  so  we  are  settled  at  Pont  Street  for  the 


season." 


Late  that  night  Jim  sat  alone  in  his  club,  and  wrote 
an  answer  to  Diana's  letter.  He  spoke  of  his  pleasure 
in  being  able  to  go  to  them  on  the  morrow,  but  its 
phrases  gave  no  sign  of  his  intense  feeling  and  his 
great  desire  for  her  happiness.  He  left  the  club  and 
walked  to  the  pillar-box  opposite.  He  slipped  the 
letter  into  the  slit  of  the  box,  and  slowly  retraced  his 
steps.  A  slight  haze  was  beginning  to  creep  over 
the  city,  and  in  the  distance  it  looked  as  though  a 

5° 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

gauze  theatre-drop  was  shutting  off  the  scene  from 
the  spectators. 

Jim  was  loath  to  leave  the  streets.  There  was  an 
enchantment  for  him  in  the  smoky  atmosphere  that 
intoxicated  him.  The  call  of  London  was  in  his  blood. 
As  he  crossed  the  quiet  Square  near  the  Mall,  he 
stretched  out  his  arms,  and  youth  and  the  joy  of 
life  rang  out  in  one  great  cry — Oh,  it  was  good  to  be 
home' 


CHAPTER  VI 

JIM  slept  but  little  that  night.  In  the  morning 
his  first  thought  was  to  reach  the  War  Office, 
which  he  did  almost  before  that  dignified  machine 
was  prepared  to  receive  him.  A  rumor  was  afloat 
that  the  Tenth  Hussars  might  have  to  start  shortly 
for  South  Africa,  but  he  found  that  the  gossip  had 
been  greatly  exaggerated.  Even  if  troops  were  sent 
out,  he  was  assured  that  the  Tenth  Hussars  were 
immune  from  active  service  for  a  long  period.  He 
rejoiced  at  the  news,  for  he  was  tired  of  foreign  service. 
His  long  illness  had  left  him  shaken  and  requiring 
a  much-needed  rest  for  recuperation. 

At  the  War  Office  he  learned  that  Henry  had  re 
signed  his  regiment  and  was  at  the  head  of  the  Sur 
rey  Yeomanry,  with  headquarters  near  the  Towers. 
This  argued  well,  he  told  himself;  it  meant  work  and 
responsibility  for  Henry  that  would  engage  his  in 
terest  and  surely  win  him  away  from  his  old,  reckless 
way  of  living. 

The  morning  slipped  away  with  its  many  demands 
on  his  first  day  in  town.  His  hansom  turned  into 
Sloane  Street  only  as  a  clock  near  by  struck  two.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  door  of  the  Pont  Street  house 

52 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

was  opened  to  him,  and  he  was  ushered  into  the 
library. 

He  dropped  lightly  into  an  arm-chair  near  a  table 
heaped  with  books.  Suddenly  a  door  opened  as 
though  at  the  end  of  a  corridor.  He  distinctly  heard 
voices  raised  in  strong  argument  behind  the  hangings; 
one  sounded  like  Henry's;  a  half- suppressed  oath 
followed. 

"It's  no  use,"  the  voice  went  on.  "You  must  do 
as  I  say.  Don't  preach."  He  could  not  hear  the 
words  that  followed.  Jim  wished  it  were  possible 
to  make  known  his  presence  in  the  room.  He  crossed 
to  the  farther  window  to  avoid  hearing  the  remainder 
of  the  conversation,  but  the  clear  and  incisive  words 
of  the  first  speaker — this  time  Jim  knew  it  was  Henry 
— again  struck  his  ears  sharply. 

"I  must  have  the  money,  Petrie;  make  what  ex 
planation  you  like,  but  send  it  to  me  within  a  week. 
It's  useless  arguing.  I've  lost  heavily  in  specula 
tion.  Here  are  the  papers."  The  opening  and 
slamming  of  several  drawers  followed.  To  Jim  the 
words  that  he  had  just  heard  were  like  a  knell  to  his 
hopes  of  the  past  week  for  Diana's  happiness.  So 
this  was  the  truth!  Another  mortgage!  He  knew 
enough  of  the  involved  condition  of  the  estate  to  dread 
the  possibilities  of  that  word. 

As  Jim  sat  in  the  window-seat  facing  the  street,  he 
was  so  absorbed  in  his  reflections  that  he  did  not  hear 
the  door  open.  With  a  start  he  felt  a  pair  of  hands 
clasped  over  his  eyes. 

53 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Guess!"  the  low  voice  said. 

He  answered,  quickly,  "Dil" 

"Yes,  it's  Di,  Jim;  and  such  a  happy  Di  to  see  you 
again." 

As  he  turned  he  half  expected  to  see  the  tiny  child 
as  he  had  last  seen  her,  with  the  puppy  in  her  arms 
calling,  "It's  Di,  Jim."  For  a  moment  they  stood 
holding  each  other's  hands  and  only  the  eyes  of  the 
two  spoke.  The  thoughts  of  both  involuntarily  went 
back  to  their  last  meeting.  They  realized  that  un 
consciously  they  had  taken  up  their  childhood  manner. 
Slowly  their  hands  unclasped  and  Diana  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"Oh,  Jim,  I  should  hardly  know  you.  You  are  so 
big,  so  strong,  and  yet — you  look  as  though  you  had 
been  very  ill;  have  you  ?" 

She  studied  Jim's  face  closely,  gaunt  and  drawn, 
but  with  the  eyes  still  like  gray  pools  of  suppressed 
fire.  Jim  forgot  the  troubled  thoughts  that  Henry's 
words  had  aroused.  He  only  knew  that  Diana  stood 
before  him,  young  and  beautiful.  He  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed;  it  was  the  ringing,  joyous  laugh 
of  a  boy. 

"And  I  almost  thought,  as  I  turned,  that  I  could 
see  my  little  Di,"  he  said. 

The  memory  of  the  delicate  child  faded  into  the 
tall,  strong  figure  before  him.  Quickly  he  noted  the 
complexities  of  her  face;  its  newly  acquired  look  of 
womanhood  seemed  curiously  incongruous  with  the 
rest  of  her  personality.  He  saw  in  her  eyes  a  haunting 

54 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

expression  of  marked  patience.  The  new  acquaint 
ance  of  the  grown  man  and  woman  had  adjusted 
itself. 

"Oh,  Jim,  I'm  so  proud  of  you,"  Diana  said,  gravely. 
"You  have  really  done  something  with  your  life  that 
is  worth  while/' 

"Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  the  rest  of  us  have 
not,"  a  voice  said. 

Jim  and  Diana  turned  as  Henry  spoke.  He  was 
standing  in  the  doorway.  Jim  noticed  with  satis 
faction  that  his  eyes  rested  on  Diana  in  unquestionable 
gratification.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Henry's  love  for 
Diana  was  real.  He  remembered  that  his  aunt,  in  her 
letter,  had  written  of  her  great  faith  in  this  marriage 
for  Henry's  happiness — indeed,  he  well  remembered 
that  the  letter  seemed  to  insist  upon  the  benefits 
Henry  would  derive  from  the  marriage.  He  won 
dered  what  it  had  meant  for  Diana. 

"Welcome  to  the  hero,"  Henry  chaffingly  said,  as 
he  crossed  to  Jim's  side. 

An  underlying  nervous  excitement,  at  once  apparent 
to  Jim,  clung  to  Henry's  manner.  Otherwise  his 
greeting  was  more  than  reassuring. 

"Did  you  finish  your  business  interview?"  Di 
ana  questioned.  A  shade  of  displeasure  showed  on 
Henry's  face  as  he  answered: 

"Yes,  yes,  I  had  more  than  enough  of  it." 

"We  postponed  luncheon,"  Diana  explained  to  Jim, 
"because  Henry  found  his  solicitor  wished  to  see  him 
about  some  repairs  needed  on  the  estate.  The  re- 
*  55 


THE  SQUAW  MAN 

quest  was  urgent,  Henry  said,  and  I  knew  you  would 
not  mind  the  delay." 

For  a  moment  Jim  felt  as  if  Henry  must  read  the 
thoughts  that  blazed  so  fiercely  in  his  mind.  So  this 
was  Henry's  way  of  deceiving  Diana.  He  tried  to 
control  his  face  so  that  it  might  give  no  sign  of  the 
disgust  he  felt.  Henry  had  turned  away;  Jim  could 
see  him  nervously  twisting  his  mustache;  Diana  was 
smiling  tenderly  on  Henry  as  though  in  approval  of 
his  morning's  benevolent  work.  Jim,  reading  between 
the  lines,  saw  Henry  wince  at  the  dishonestly  gained 
approbation;  and  decided  that  Henry  was  vulnerable 
where  his  desire  to  gain  her  respect  was  concerned. 
This  was  so  much  in  his  favor,  at  all  events. 

An  hour  later,  as  they  sat  over  their  coffee,  Henry 
began  explaining  to  Jim  his  work  with  the  Yeomanry. 
If  Jim  stayed  at  home  he  wanted  him  to  join  in  this 
splendid  service  to  England. 

"We  shall  need  these  men  later,  mark  me.  The 
situation  in  Africa  is  threatening."  Then  followed 
a  discussion  of  their  plans. 

Henry's  career  as  a  soldier,  Jim  remembered,  had 
promised  well,  but  he  also  remembered  certain  periods 
of  riotous  living  that  had  brought  him  for  a  time 
under  the  ban  of  the  authorities. 

As  Henry  elaborated  his  scheme  to  perfect  the  Yeo 
manry  in  their  county,  Jim  acknowledged  that  there 
was  no  question  of  his  undoubted  ability  to  be  in  com 
mand.  He  succumbed  to  the  strong  personal  charm 
of  his  cousin.  Surely  Henry  would  control  himself 

56 


THE  SQUAW   MAN 

and  make  a  worthy  showing  of  his  life  yet.  In  Jim's 
heart  was  the  silent  prayer  that  it  might  be  so,  and  that 
perhaps  he  could  help  him  to  attain  this  result. 

Diana,  listening,  was  happy  in  the  apparent  new 
bond  between  the  cousins.  She  had  been  so  eager 
for  this:  that  Jim  should  be  with  them  as  he  had  been 
when  he  was  a  boy.  Since  her  marriage,  her  life  had 
been  full  of  pleasant  days,  with  only  here  and  there  the 
pin-prick  of  the  old,  frightened  instincts.  It  usually 
occurred  when  Henry  was  in  one  of  his  black  moods. 
Up  to  the  present  he  had  tried  to  avoid  her  on  these 
occasions.  She  strangely  rebelled  when  she  came  to 
realize  that  it  was  her  beauty  which  gave  him  his 
greatest  pleasure.  That  it  was  primarily  her  youth 
and  loveliness  that  delighted  him,  he  made  no  effort 
to  conceal.  At  times  she  admitted  to  herself  that  she 
wished  it  were  not  so  flagrant — this  frank,  pagan  joy 
of  the  senses  which  she  invoked  in  him.  But,  she 
reasoned,  if  she  allowed  these  thoughts  to  frighten  her, 
she  was  catching  at  shadows.  Of  tangible  facts  there 
was  none;  indeed,  she  found  it  impossible  to  explain 
satisfactorily  these  doubts  and  regrets. 

Jim  was  promising  Henry  that  he  would  think 
seriously  of  the  Yeomanry  work,  when  Diana  suddenly 
remembered  that  Henry  and  she  were  due  at  a  studio 
to  see  a  portrait  of  hers  that  was  soon  to  be  exhibited. 
At  that  moment  a  note  was  brought  to  Henry.  Jim 
observed  the  quick  contraction  of  Henry's  brows 
and  the  sharp  biting  of  his  lips  as  he  read  it.  Henry 
crumpled  the  letter.  "Jim  can  take  you,"  he 

57 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

brusquely  said.  "This  note  is  of  importance  and 
requires  my  immediate  attention.  It's  concerning 
my  interview  of  this  morning." 

Diana's  face  showed  her  disappointment. 

"But  this  is  the  third  time  that  you've  broken  your 
appointment  with  me,  and  you  promised  Mr.  Bond 
that  you  would  surely  give  your  decision  on  the  picture 
to-day,"  Diana  protested.  "Besides,  it  is  difficult  for 
me  to  take  all  the  responsibility  in  the  matter,  and  the 
picture  must  be  sent  to-day  to  the  exhibition.  Do 
meet  me  there  later,  Henry." 

Henry  had  been  righting  the  Furies  for  days;  his 
financial  worries  were  now  vital  to  his  honor.  Into  his 
eyes  came  the  brutal  flash  that  Jim  knew  so  well,  and 
he  hurriedly  intervened,  "I'll  go  with  you,  Di,  with 
pleasure,  if  I  can  be  of  the  slightest  service  to  you." 

Instead  of  helping  the  situation,  Jim  found  that  his 
quick  acquiescence,  although  suggested  by  Henry, 
had  the  effect  of  further  irritating  him.  Henry  turned 
from  the  door,  to  which  he  had  crossed,  with  the 
crumpled  note  in  his  hand;  all  the  old,  domineering, 
rebellious  temper  struck  flame. 

"There!  You  have  Jim.  What  more  can  you 
wish  ?  Your  hero's  opinion  will  no  doubt  interest  you 
far  more  than  mine,  so  don't  talk  rot  about  your  dis 
appointment." 

Diana  stood  silent,  amazed  at  her  husband's  un 
called-for  fury.  Jim  found  it  impossible  to  speak. 
The  servant  returned  to  see  if  the  answer  to  the  note 
was  ready. 

58 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Henry  contended  for  a  few  seconds  with  a  tempest 
uous  remorse  as  strong  as  the  flare  of  his  nervous 
outbreak;  he  bitterly  regretted  his  lack  of  control. 
He  had  tried  to  conceal  the  strain  he  had  been  under 
all  the  day;  to  be  thwarted  as  he  apparently  was  by 
the  news  from  Petrie,  was  to  arouse  the  demons  of 
destruction  in  him — destruction  to  himself  as  well  as 
to  those  near  him.  He  cursed  himself  as  the  victim 
of  his  own  folly;  but  to  see  Jim  master  of  the  situation 
roused  the  old  rebellion  of  his  boyhood.  A  move 
ment  from  the  waiting  servant  recalled  him,  and  with 
a  few  words  of  half-muttered  apology  he  hurriedly 
left  the  room.  A  moment  later  they  heard  him  drive 
away. 

From  so  small  a  matter  so  great  a  consequence  had 
arisen.  This  insight  into  Henry's  nature  again  showed 
Jim  the  quicksands  on  which  Diana's  happiness  was 
built. 

To  Diana  the  incident  was  embarrassing,  but  with 
infinite  tact  she  made  no  allusion  to  it.  Jim  mar 
velled  at  the  quiet  control  with  which  she  deftly 
turned  it  aside. 

The  carriage  was  announced. 

"Will  you  come,  Jim?"  Diana  asked. 

He  hesitated. 

"Do,"  she  coaxingly  said,  "it  would  help  me." 

Under  the  calm,  serious  face  he  could  see  the  trem 
ulous  expression  that  showed  her  quivering,  hurt 
feelings.  The  tender  eyes  held  him  fast.  Still  he 
hesitated.  As  in  a  moment  of  prevision  he  was 

59 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

urged  to  say  no;  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  starting 
on  a  way  that  led  him  into  darkness.  The  absurd 
compelling  force  fastened  around  him  in  a  tight  grip; 
he  tried  to  stammer  a  few  words;  he  was  irritated  by 
his  apparent  stupidity,  then  he  heard  Diana  say: 

"Let  me  decide  for  you." 

As  she  spoke,  a  shaft  of  golden  light  penetrated  the 
room.  Why  should  he  not  go  ?  He  quickly  threw  off 
the  intangible  feeling  of  fear.  He  told  her  he  was 
only  too  happy  to  be  of  service.  It  was  a  warm, 
mellow,  summer  day,  and  the  soft,  alluring  air  quickly 
lulled  Jim  into  a  tranquil  mood. 

As  they  stood  before  the  portrait,  Jim  knew  that  it 
was  one  of  the  painter's  true  inspirations.  The  simple 
brown  gown  in  which  Diana  had  been  painted  brought 
out  the  gold  in  the  bands  of  her  straight  hair.  It 
faded  away  into  a  dull  background,  leaving  only  her 
luminous  face  in  high  relief.  The  painted  oval  con 
tour  and  the  curved  lips  were  there  in  all  their  beau 
ty;  but  the  shadowy  eyes  unconsciously  showed  the 
troubled  soul.  It  was  a  portrait  of  Diana  older  in 
years  and  experience.  The  painter  seemed  to  have 
passed  by  her  obvious  youth  and  divined  her  in  her 
maturity.  Curiously  enough,  the  portrait  stirred  Jim 
more  than  his  meeting  with  Diana  had  done. 

When  they  descended  to  the  carriage,  Diana  said, 
"Come  and  drive  —  not  in  the  park,  but  let  us  go 
along  the  Embankment,  across  the  bridge  towards 
Richmond.  I  long  for  a  breath  of  the  country." 
This  time  he  made  no  effort  to  resist  her  appeal. 

60 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

As  they  drove,  Jim  learned  from  Diana  the  news 
about  Sir  Charles.  His  ill  health  had  greatly  in 
creased,  and  a  London  specialist's  opinion  had  been 
far  from  sanguine.  He  gathered  that  Diana  felt  it 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end;  as  she  spoke,  Jim  could 
read  the  anguish  of  her  thoughts.  Once  she  turned 
to  him  and  said: 

"  I  have  so  few  to  love/' 

Soon  they  found  themselves  talking  merrily  over 
gay  reminiscences  of  their  childhood  days.  The 
hours  slipped  by,  and  it  was  only  the  deepening  of  the 
shadows  that  reminded  Diana  that  she  was  enter 
taining  the  Prime-Minister  that  night  at  a  large  dinner 
party.  The  return  home  was  quickly  made. 

"Won't  you  dine  with  us,  Jim  ?"  Diana  asked,  as 
they  reached  Pont  Street.  "We  can  easily  lay  an 


extra  cover." 


But  Jim,  feeling  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  see 
Henry  that  night,  pleaded  an  engagement  at  his  club. 
He  left  Diana  with  a  promise  to  see  her  soon. 

That  night  he  forgot  her  unusual  beauty;  he  re 
membered  only  the  fragrance  of  her  personality. 
During  the  following  week  he  obtained  a  leave  of 
absence,  and  with  Singleton  planned  to  go  abroad. 
Why  he  did  this  he  could  not  quite  explain.  He  saw 
Diana  and  Henry  only  once  before  leaving  for  his 
holiday.  That  was  in  June- 


CHAPTER  VII 

UPON  the  expiration  of  his  sick  leave,  Jim  re 
turned  to  his  regiment,  stationed  at  Dorden,  a 
few  miles  from  Dinningfold.  He  found  the  situation 
but  little  changed  at  the  Towers.  Henry's  uncertain 
moods  made  Jim's  visits  a  doubtful  pleasure,  but  since 
his  first  day  at  Pont  Street  there  had  been  no  decided 
outbreak  on  his  cousin's  part. 

The  autumn  brought  with  it  the  calamitous  war 
m  South  Africa,  and  all  thoughts  were  concentrated 
on  preparing  the  Yeomanry  of  the  country  to  be  ready 
to  join  the  Regulars  in  the  field.  Jim's  services  were 
readily  enlisted  by  Henry,  and  in  the  organization  of 
the  county's  Yeomanry  he  became  an  active  force. 
His  work  often  required  him  to  spend  days  at  the 
Towers. 

With  the  passing  of  the  last  days  of  the  old  year, 
Henry's  moodiness  increased;  even  Lady  Elizabeth 
seemed  hopeless  and  unable  to  avert  them,  and  Jim 
could  see  the  bitter  disillusionment  that  Diana  daily 
encountered.  During  the  winter  Henry's  attitude  tow 
ards  Diana  changed;  her  presence  was  an  irritation  to 
him.  At  times  he  made  every  effort  to  regain  his  lost 
footing,  but  again  and  again  he  forfeited  the  newly 

62 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

acquired  grace  which  her  clemency  granted.  Days 
of  absence  from  the  Towers  were  now  not  uncommon. 
The  light  gradually  faded  from  Lady  Elizabeth's  face, 
leaving  it  a  haunting  gray  mask.  But  no  word  was 
spoken  by  either  of  the  women  to  Jim.  Both  were 
indefatigable  in  their  efforts  to  relieve  the  condition 
of  the  soldiers  freezing  on  the  African  veldt.  A  fund 
was  started  in  the  county  to  be  used  for  the  widows 
and  orphans  of  the  fighting  men,  and  Henry  was 
placed  at  the  head  of  it. 

In  London  the  innumerable  bazaars  and  fetes  given 
to  swell  the  various  funds  of  relief  were  the  principal 
functions  of  the  fashionable  world.  Jim,  who  had 
just  returned  from  a  visit  to  Scotland  over  the  holiday 
season,  was  standing  near  a  stall  in  Albert  Hall, 
presided  over  by  Mrs.  Hobart  Chichester  Chichester 
Jones.  As  she  eagerly  turned  towards  him  there  was 
no  doubt  of  the  American  woman's  desire  to  gain  his 
approbation.  A  friendship  had  sprung  up  between 
them  since  Jim's  return  from  India,  and  her  frankness 
amused  him.  It  was  Sadie  Jones's  second  year  in 
London,  and  the  half  of  the  great  houses  that  had  been 
denied  her  the  previous  year  were  now  open  to  her 
and  she  was  a  much  sought  personage  at  their  fes 
tivities. 

Whether  this  was  due  to  her  insouciant  face  with 
its  tip-tilted  nose,  or  the  slight  lisp  that  made  her 
American  accent  seem  so  fetching,  her  friends  could 
not  decide.  Her  enemies  —  and  Sadie  Jones  had 
them  at  Battle  Creek — declared  it  was  her  charming 

63 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

characteristic  of  never  remembering  a  social  slight'- 
of  generously  forgiving  the  offender  and  in  true 
Christian  spirit  offering  the  other  cheek.  They  for 
got  what  Jim  and  her  sponsors  in  London  could  plain 
ly  see — it  was  her  frankness  that  razed  to  the  ground 
her  social  barrier.  When  she  spoke  quite  frankly  of  a 
boarding-house  her  mother  had  kept  in  a  mining-town 
where  Hobart  Jones  had  been  a  paying  guest,  and  told 
in  picturesque  exaggeration  of  her  starved  youth  and 
pitiful  hatred  of  her  environment — of  the  longing  to 
escape  to  the  great  life  of  Europe  with  its  men  and 
women  of  tradition — she  disarmed  the  gossips.  She 
frankly  acknowledged  what  was  her  detractors'  store 
of  tittle-tattle.  It  was  a  unique  game  and  it  won. 

Jim  watched  her  with  tolerant  interest  as  she  in 
veigled  a  young  guardsman  into  giving  a  substantial 
donation  to  the  cause.  As  he  idly  surveyed  the  scene 
he  wondered  at  Diana's  failure  to  attend  the  fete. 
The  tired  women  who  had  been  in  attendance  were 
disposing  of  the  remains  of  their  stock.  The  eager 
crowd  that  had  thronged  the  hall  and  paid  a  half- 
crown  to  be  served  tea  by  a  duchess,  or  to  see  a 
peeress  act  as  barmaid  in  rivalry  to  a  popular  Rosa 
lind  of  the  stage,  was  gradually  thinning  out. 

Jim  started  to  leave  the  flag-bedecked  hall  with  its 
litter  of  packages  and  debris-strewn  floor  as  proofs 
of  the  day's  profitable  traffic.  Sadie  Jones,  who  had 
been  skilfully  effecting  her  sales  and  keeping  him  in 
sight,  turned  to  him. 

"Wait  and  drive  home  with  me  to  dinner.  The 

64 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

brougham's  at  the  door.  I  have  news  for  you  of 
Lady  Kerhill.  I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit." 

Mrs.  Jones  lived  in  a  box  of  a  house  in  Curzon  Street. 
It  was  a  setting  especially  designed  to  suit  her  small, 
birdlike  personality.  But  Jim's  stalwart  frame  seem 
ed  grotesquely  out  of  proportion  in  the  small  French 
salon.  The  dinner  was  an  amusing  tete-a-tete  with 
Sadie  at  her  most  vivacious  best,  telling  anecdotes  of 
the  plains  she  loved. 

'"  Sometimes  I  Ions;  for  the  smell  of  the  alkali.     It 

o 

chokes  one,  but  I  find  the  fogs  far  harder  to  swallow. 
I  was  bred  to  it." 

Hitherto  her  descriptions  of  the  prairie  had  often 
made  Jim  long  to  see  the  country  she  painted  so 
vividly.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  Jim  and  with  quick 
decision  said: 

"I  can't  understand  your  Englishman's  point  of 
view.  Why,  in  America,  if  Hoby  Jones  had  treated 
me  as  Lord  Kerhill  is  treating  his  wife,  there  would  be 
ructions.  Yes,  ructions,"  she  calmly  went  on,  in 
answer  to  Jim's  look  o*'  amazement.  "Lord  Kerhill 
is  your  cousin,  I  know,  Sit  Lady  Kerhill  is  an  angel. 
Why  don't  you  do  something  r" 

For  a  moment  Jim  could  not  quite  grasp  her  ir 
relevant  outburst.  Then  he  learned  that  Diana's 
failure  to  appear  at  the  bazaar  was  due  to  days  of 
accumulated  anxiety  at  the  Towers.  Henry  had 
been  away  for  a  week  without  a  word  of  explanation 
to  those  at  home. 

"Of  course,"  Sadie  Jones  continued  as  she  leaned 

65 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

back  and  puffed  her  cigarette,  "I  know  the  truth. 
We  all  do  here  in  town.  He's  drinking  inordinately 
and  leading  a  most  flagrant  life.  An  earl  may  be  a 
stable-boy,  I  find,  and  Kerhill  is  certainly  behaving 
like  one.  Lady  Elizabeth  is  trying  to  cover  up  the 
situation,  and  Lady  Kerhill  seems  dazed  by  recent 


events." 


Of  the  sincerity  of  her  interest  in  Diana,  Jim  could 
have  no  doubt.  Under  her  frivolities  she  had  an 
appreciation  of  what  was  fine  in  men  and  women. 
As  she  talked  she  was  carefully  watching  the  effect 
of  her  words  on  Jim;  her  instinct  had  long  ago  told  her 
that  Jim's  interest  in  Diana  was  no  usual  one — how 
unusual  she  did  not  care  to  probe.  She  knew  that  he 
was  the  one  person  who  might  have  an  influence  over 
Henry;  she  also  knew  that  by  this  conversation  she 
might  be  stirring  up  a  situation  that  would  far  from 
benefit  her,  but  she  played  the  game  fair.  She  was 
rich — Jim  was  almost  poor.  Often  she  wondered 
and  hoped — but  so  far  her  dreams,  she  knew,  were 
built  alone  upon  her  desires. 

They  talked  for  another  ho  ;r,  and  when  Jim  left 
the  Curzon  Street  house  he  promised  Sadie  Jones  he 
would  see  Henry.  From  her  window  Sadie  watched 
him  swinging  down  the  street.  She  had  tried  to  serve 
Diana,  but,  she  asked,  what  had  she  accomplished  for 
herself?  She  lighted  another  cigarette  and  settled 
her  foot  against  the  fender.  She  was  thinking  of  Jim's 
face  as  he  had  listened  to  her  talk  about  Diana. 

The  fire  burned  gray.  A  line  of  "dead  soldiers," 

66 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

as  the  boys  at  Battle  Creek  had  called  the  half-burned 
cigarettes,  lay  on  the  hearthstone — a  tribute  to  the 
length  of  her  reverie.  Another  expression  of  the  boys 
at  home  came  back  forcibly  to  her  as  she  left  the  room 
and  crossed  to  her  bedchamber.  After  all,  she  had 
been  "dead  game."  Gain  or  loss,  she  did  not  regret 
her  evening's  work. 

As  Jim  walked  along  Piccadilly,  he  knew  that 
Henry's  liaisons  were  now  town-talk.  It  was  useless 
to  close  his  eyes  to  the  suspicions  of  the  past  month. 
Sadie  Jones  represented  the  world's  opinion,  and  what 
she  tried  to  warn  him  about  would  soon  be  brutally 
brought  to  Diana's  knowledge.  At  the  club  he  could 
find  no  news  of  Henry.  All  night  he  thought  out  the 
question  of  the  wisdom  of  his  approaching  Henry, 
but  the  strength  of  his  determination  only  grew  as  the 
gray  of  the  dawn  increased. 

The  following  morning  he  called  at  Pont  Street. 
He  found  Henry  lingering  over  some  breakfast.  A 
brandy- glass  and  empty  soda-bottle  aroused  Jim's 
suspicions,  while  the  bloated  circles  under  Henry's 
eyes,  and  his  yellow,  discolored  skin,  were  unmistak 
able  proofs  of  a  recent  debauch.  As  Jim  entered, 
Henry  looked  up  with  surprise. 

"  Didn't  expect  you  back  so  soon,"  he  said,  after  their 
strained  greetings.  Henry  seemed  ill  at  ease.  "Any 
thing  up  ?"  he  went  on,  as  }im  didn't  speak. 

There  was  a  moment's  portentous  silence. 

"Henry,"  Jim  began,  very  calmly,  "I've  got  to 
speak  to  you  about  certain  matters." 

67 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Henry,  who  had  been  shifting  about  in  his  chair, 
became  motionless.  His  clinched  hands  strained 
purple  as  he  grasped  the  chair  rail. 

"About  the — Yeomanry — work?"  he  half  stam 
mered  while  his  eyes  furtively  sought  Jim's  face. 

But  Jim,  who  was  thinking  only  of  Diana  and  the 
difficulty  of  alluding  to  Henry's  recent  conduct,  failed 
to  notice  his  faltering  words  and  frightened  expression. 

"Oh  no — no,"  he  answered.  "That's  going  on 
all  right,  I  hear."  He  hesitated.  Then  with  a  quick 
breath  he  said,  "It's  no  use.  I've  got  to  blurt  out 
what's  troubling  me.  All  the  town  is  talking  about 
your  life;  its  flagrance,  its  indecencies.  Do  you 
realize  that  it  will  soon  reach  Diana,  and  that  Lady 
Elizabeth  is  quivering  under  the  strain  of  a  certain 
amount  of  knowledge  which  she  is  hiding,  and  is 
dreading  further  disclosures  ?" 

As  Jim  spoke  he  seemed  to  gain  courage.  "Don't 
speak.  Let  me  have  my  say,"  he  quietly  commanded 
as  Henry  rose  and  attempted  a  blustering  manner. 
"I  am  the  only  man  close  to  Lady  Elizabeth  and 
Diana.  For  Sir  Charles  to  become  aware  of  this 
scandalous  condition  of  affairs  would  be  disastrous. 
You  know  that  perfectly.  Now  tell  me,  in  God's 
name,  why  you  married  Di  if  you  wished  to  lead  this 
life?"  He  paused.  "Can't  you  pull  yourself  to 
gether  ?  It's  not  too  late.  So  far  nothing  definite  is 
known  to  either  Di  or  Lady  Elizabeth,  and  you  may 
trust  me."  He  rose  and  crossed  to  Henry.  "It's 
all  true,  I  suppose — what  I'm  accusing  you  of — isn'r 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

it  ?"  There  was  no  answer.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
Henry's  shoulder.  "Tell  me  that  it's  over  and  that 
you  mean  to  go  straight." 

Henry  turned.  All  his  rebellion  seemed  to  have 
slipped  from  him.  Suddenly  he  dropped  into  a  chair 
and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  not  fit — not  fit,  do  you  hear  ? — for  Di.  I  mar 
ried  her  because  I  loved  her.  Yes,  I  did.  But  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  fight  daily  the  devil's  desire. 
God!  what  do  you  know  about  it?  I  am  in  the 
meshes.  I  have  sunk  lower  and  lower.  You  want 
to  know  about  this  woman  the  world  links  with  my 
disgrace.  Well,  I  tried  to  break  with  her  when  I 
married  Di — I  swear  I  did — but  I  can't.  She  is  like 
a  dog  that  one  has  grown  attached  to — you  can't  fling 
it  out  of  your  life  completely.  1  here  has  always  been 
a  wall  between  Diana  and  me.  I  tried  in  the  begin 
ning  to  reach  her,  but  she's  afraid  of  me — I  know  it." 

As  the  torrent  of  words  choked  him,  he  stopped  with 
a  quick  passion  of  agony.  He  was  sincere  in  this 
confession  of  his  weakness;  Jim  could  not  doubt  him, 
though  he  was  astonished  at  the  admission.  He  had 
expected  Henry  to  assail  him  with  hard  words  and  in 
solent  denials.  The  acknowledged  truth  was  sicken 
ing.  Henry  mechanically  took  some  brandy;  he 
seemed  a  vibrating;  bundle  of  torments. 

o 

Jim  watched  him  closely.  "  I  don't  want  to  preach, 
Henry,"  he  said,  "but  when  you  stop  that,"  -he 
pointed  to  the  half -empty  flask — "you'll  have  half 
tonquered  yourself,  and  the  rest  will  be  far  easier. 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

This  drinking  will  pull  you  into  days  of  horror,  days 
that  would  mean  desolation  to  us  all." 

He  hesitated.  Henry  crossed  to  the  chimney  and 
leaned  against  it  with  his  back  to  Jim. 

"There  is  every  chance  for  you,"  continued  Jim. 
"In  three  months  you  can  have  regained  your  place 
with  Di,  and  think — think  what  it  would  mean  to 
your  mother." 

Henry  did  not  move;  his  head  was  resting  on  his  out 
stretched  arms,  lying  across  the  mantel  edge.  The 
broken  figure  of  Henry  touched  Jim  deeply.  "It's 
all  right,  old  man.  We'll  forget  this.  Forgive  my 
frankness,  but,  after  all,  your  interests  are  mine;  your 
mother  and  your  home  were  mine,  and  Di — was  like 
a  little  sister,  so  I  had  to  speak.  I'll  not  say  another 
word.  I'm  off."  And  almost  before  Henry  could 
realize  it,  Jim  had  left  him — left  him  with  the  dull 
burning  in  his  heart  and  brain. 

So  Jim  knew.  It  had  been  a  relief  to  acknowledge 
his  pent-up  remorse,  but  he  was  more  deeply  involved 
than  his  cousin  suspected.  Jim  knew  but  half;  the 
other  half,  with  its  awful,  dreaded  discovery,  walked 
ever  beside  him.  He  made  a  sudden  rush  to  the  door 
as  though  to  recall  Jim,  to  unburden  himself  and  be 
saved,  but  the  momentary  impulse  died.  He  stumbled 
heavily  into  a  chair;  it  was  useless.  He  alone  could 
save  the  situation,  and  the  half  that  Jim  knew  would 
be  bitter  enough  to  face  in  his  daily  companionship 
with  him. 

August  came  with  its  heather-clad  hills,  but  Eng- 

70 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

land  rejoiced  less  than  usual  in  the  beauty  of  the  great 
flower-garden  which  the  entire  country-side  resembled. 
Over  it  all  hung  the  tragic  symbol  of  war.  The  call  of 
Africa  for  men  had  been  appalling.  In  the  park  of 
the  Towers  a  detachment  of  Yeomanry  were  en 
camped  for  a  fortnight's  training,  and  the  restful 
beauty  of  the  place  for  days  had  been  broken  by  the 
firing  manoeuvres  of  the  men.  To-night  all  was  quiet, 
with  only  the  sounds  from  the  men  in  their  tents  faintly 
reaching  the  Towers.  Henry  was  giving  a  dinner  to 
the  officers  in  command  and  coffee  was  being  served 
in  the  garden.  A  flaming  border  of  evening  prim 
roses  were  opening  their  yellow,  cuplike  blossoms, 
In  the  distance  a  boy's  clear  voice  was  singing: 

**  Oh,  Tommy,  Tommy  Atkins,   you're   a  good  'un,   'eart 

and  'and, 

You're  a  credit  to  your  country  and  to  all  your  native 
land." 

Lady  Elizabeth  had  gathered  a  house-part}7  to  see 
the  afternoon's  manoeuvres  and  to  remain  for  the 
dinner.  The  Bishop  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
folded  his  hands  over  his  apron;  his  short,  lean  legs 
were  stretched  out  comfortably — the  Kerhills  knew 
how  to  entertain  the  Church,  he  was  convinced.  Near 
him  sat  Sir  John  Applegate  and  Mrs.  Chichester 
Chichester  Jones.  Close  to  a  great  bed  of  white 
pansies,  with  scarlet  standard  roses  gleaming  like 
sentinels  over  the  delicate  white  blossoms,  were 
Mabel,  Diana,  and  Mr.  Chiswick,  the  young  ascetic 
6  71 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

curate.  Henry,  who  was  standing  near  Lady  Eliza 
beth,  kept  his  eyes  moodily  on  the  ground.  Sir 
Charles,  with  a  heavy  shawl  wrapped  around  him,  was 
stretched  out  in  a  long  basket-chair.  The  air  was  so 
still  that  the  moving  of  a  bird  in  its  nest  or  the  rustling 
of  a  leaf  disturbed  its  silence. 

"God  bless  you,  Tommy  Atkins — 
Here's  a  country's  'ealth  to  you." 

The  voice  ceased. 

Sir  John  had  been  telling  a  story  to  Mrs.  Jones  of 
the  mule  who  drew  a  pension  from  the  American 
government. 

"Heard  that  story  in  America.  Rather  good,  eh, 
Mrs.  Hobart  Chi — "  ignominiously  he  stood  stricken 
by  the  American  name.  The  Bishop,  seeing  his  be 
wilderment  turned  quickly  and  whispered  the  dread 
ful  cognomen.  As  Sir  John  finished  the  broken  sen 
tence  there  was  a  quiet  laugh. 

Henry  leaned  over  his  mother.  "Mater,"  he  said, 
"Don't  you  think  that  Mrs.  Hobart  Chichester 
Chichester  Jones  would  make  a  ripping  match  for 
Jim  ?  I  wish  you'd  try  and  make  an  opportunity  to 
help  it  along." 

As  he  spoke  he  already  saw  the  gold  from  the  Battle 
Creek  mines  pouring  into  the  coffers  of  the  house  of 
Kerhill.  Lady  Elizabeth  looked  up  with  sudden  com 
prehension.  The  American  was  charming;  her  look 
reassured  Henry. 

72 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Most  assuredly.     I'll  do  what  I  can." 

From  the  drawing-room  came  the  sound  of  music. 
An  impromptu  dance  had  been  arranged  by  Diana 
for  the  young  people,  who  were  beginning  to  arrive. 
At  a  message  from  Bates  she  quietly  went  towards 
the  open  casement  to  meet  her  guests.  Henry  fol 
lowed. 

As  the  others  started  to  follow,  Sir  John  and  the 
Bishop  held  a  whispered  consultation.  Then  the 
Bishop,  bursting  with  importance,  turned  to  Sir  John 
and  said: 

"Shall  we  take  the  ladies  into  our  confidence,  Sir 
John  ?" 

"By  all  means,  Bishop;  yes,  do." 

Mabel  and  Mrs.  Jones  joined  in  the  supplica 
tion. 

"Kerhill's  brother  officers,"  the  Bishop  began, 
"have  purchased  a  very  beautiful  loving-cup  in  ap 
preciation  of  his  work  for  the  fund,  which  we  have 
arranged  to  present  to  -  morrow  afternoon  to  the 
Earl." 

"Oh,  how  charming,  and  what  a  delightful  sur 
prise!"  Lady  Elizabeth  said.  These  moments  of  joy 
in  Henry  were  rare  events  in  her  existence. 

"But,"  said  Sadie  Jones,  "isn't  Captain  James 
Wynnegate  to  get  a  loving-cup,  too  ?" 

Sir  John  answered,  "Oh,  he's  only  the  secretary  of 
the  fund." 

The  waltz  tune,  with  its  enticing  beat,  grew  louder 
and  louder,  and  soon  the  garden  was  deserted  by  all 

73 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

save  Sir  Charles,  who  remained  there  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts. 

Diana,  having  seen  her  guests  dancing,  and  fearful 
that  her  father  might  remain  too  long  in  the  garden, 
hurriedly  returned  to  him.  She  stood  in  the  open 
window  and  tenderly  watched  the  closely  wrapped 
figure.  The  moonlight  intensified  his  pallor;  it  had 
been  an  event  that  he  should  come  to  them  that  night. 
She  saw  him  smile. 

"Well,  father,"  she  said,  "are  you  having  a  happy 
time  ?" 

He  rose  and  drew  her  close  to  him.  "My  dear 
child,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  this  has  pleased  me. 
It  is  a  great  joy  to  me  to  know  that  my  daughter  is 
married  to  the  distinguished  head  of  one  of  our  great 
families,  a  man  so  loved,  so  honored — a  pillar  of 
society,  and  a  bulwark  of  the  empire." 

Never  for  a  moment  had  he  suspected  the  misery  of 
Diana's  marriage.  Not  a  quiver  of  emotion  showed 
on  her  calm  face  as  she  drew  her  arm  into  his  and 
said,  quietly,  "Yes,  father." 

"I  haven't  forgotten  your  opposition  to  this  match," 
Sir  Charles  continued,  "  although  I  dare  say  you  have, 
my  dear,  and  I  am  naturally  pleased  that  events  have 
vindicated  me.  Your  husband  cuts  a  noble  figure 
in  the  world,  and  I  am  grateful  beyond  words  to  see 
you  so  happy." 

As  Diana  gradually  led  Sir  Charles  from  his  seat 
to  the  house,  she  again  answered,  "Yes,  father." 

During  the  past  months  her  life  had  grown  more 

74 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

dreary.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Jim  —  dear  Jim  — 
what  would  she  have  done  ?  Her  fragrant  mind  had 
never  been  disloyal  to  Henry.  Often  she  had  longed 
to  go  to  her  father,  but  her  solicitude  for  him  pre 
vented  her  from  bringing  disaster  to  him.  As  they 
reached  the  door  Lady  Elizabeth  called: 

"Have  you  seen  Jim,  Diana?" 

Jim  had  been  down  in  the  park  doing  some  service 
for  a  sick  trooper;  Diana  explained  this  to  Lady 
Elizabeth.  He  had  promised  to  return  in  time  for 
the  dancing. 

"By-the-way,  my  dear,"  Lady  Elizabeth  began, 
"if  you  get  an  opportunity,  I  wish  you  would  say  a 
judicious  word  in  praise  of  Mrs.  Hobart  Chichester 
Chichester  Jones.  Jim,  you  know,  sets  such  an  ex 
traordinary  value  on  your  opinion." 

A  quick  feeling  of  dislike  filled  Diana — why,  she 
could  not  explain. 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?"  she  said.  "Praise 
her  American  accent  or  her  American  money  ?"  Be 
fore  she  had  finished  the  sentence  she  was  ashamed. 
She  really  liked  Sadie  Jones;  the  sneer  had  been  un 
worthy.  She  was  about  to  retract  her  words  when 
Jim  hurriedly  came  up  the  garden-walk.  As  she  en 
tered  the  library  with  Sir  Charles  he  called: 

"  Don't  forget  our  waltz,  Diana." 

"I  won't,  Jim/' 

Lady  Elizabeth  sank  on  to  the  stone  bench.  She 
watched  Jim,  whose  eyes  were  still  following  Diana's 
receding  figure.  This  was  the  moment  in  which  she 

75 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

might  serve  Henry.     In  the  music-room  Sadie  Jones 
was  singing: 

"Tout  lasse,  tout  passe — " 

Jim  began  humming  the  tune;  he  crossed  to  Lady 
Elizabeth  and  lightly  put  his  arm  about  her  as  he 
said: 

"Well,  Auntie  miner 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LADY    ELIZABETH  watched  Jim    with    curio- 
sity.     The  voice  from  the  drawing-room  grew 
louder: 

"Tout  casse,  tout  passe — " 

deeper  grew  Jim's  voice  as  he  softly  sang  the  refrain. 
Quite  abruptly  Lady  Elizabeth  began: 

"She's  a  fine  woman,  Jim." 

As  she  spoke,  Jim  caught  sight  of  Diana  crossing 
to  the  piano  in  smiling  approbation  as  the  song  ceased, 
and  answered; 

"Diana?" 

"Diana!  Nonsense!"  Again  she  watched  Jim's 
face,  but  its  grave  serenity  gave  no  sign.  "I  mean 
Mrs.  Hobait  Chichester  Chichester  Jones.  She's 
quite  the  type  that  men  admire,  is  she  not  ?" 

"That's  the  most  offensive  thing  that  one  woman 
can  say  about  another,"  Jim  laughingly  replied,  as 
he  turned  from  watching  the  group  in  the  music- 
room — "isn't  it,  Auntie?" 

"Not  at  all."  Lady  Elizabeth  fidgeted;  he  was 
making  it  exceedingly  difficult,  she  thought,  as  he 
leaned  over  her,  his  laughing  eyes  teasing  her.  "The 

77 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

sensible  view  of  things  never  appeals  to  you,  Jim;  so 
I  have  hesitated  to  remind  you  that  Sadie  Jones  is 
exceedingly  rich." 

"Did  you  notice  how  deferential  I  was,  Aunt  ?"  Jim 
lightly  interrupted.  "Why,  if  you  tell  me  more,  I 
shall  scarcely  dare  to  speak  to  her." 

He  drew  Lady  Elizabeth's  arm  through  his;  he 
knew  what  was  coming.  It  amused  him,  and  it  also 
irritated  him  a  little,  but  he  felt  very  tender  tow 
ards  his  aunt.  All  the  boyish  hurt  had  been  for 
gotten.  Her  great  endurance  of  Henry's  conduct, 
her  indomitable  resolution  to  keep  him  well  placed 
in  the  eyes  of  men,  deeply  touched  him.  After  all, 
in  her  devotion  to  Henry  there  was  a  magnificent 
capacity  for  self-surrender.  During  the  past  winter 
Jim  had  grown  strangely  attached  to  his  aunt,  and 
a  great  pity  for  the  inevitable  tragedy  of  her  life  lay 
deep  in  his  thoughts  of  the  proud  old  woman.  He 
patted  her  hand  caressingly. 

With  almost  a  note  of  despair  she  said,  "And  I 
invited  her  here  for  this  visit  especially  for  you,  Jim." 

"Do  you  think  she  would  care  to  add  to  her  already 
abundant  collection  of  names  ?" 

He  would  not  be  serious,  but  Lady  Elizabeth  took 
up  his  question  literally. 

"  I  think  she  would  be  very  glad  to  ally  herself  with 
one  of  the  great  families  of  England.  Besides,"  she 
continued,  as  there  was  no  reply,  "such  a  marriage 
would  put  you  in  a  position  to  be  of  great  service  to 
Henry  and  the  family." 

78 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim  distinctly  saw  Henry's  purpose  in  this  appeal. 
It  sickened  him — this  cold,  devilish  selfishness  that 
made  his  cousin  use  all  things  as  a  means  to  further 
his  own  ends.  His  spirit  rose  in  revolt  against  his 
aunt,  who,  he  now  saw,  was  seriously  asking  so  grave 
a  sacrifice  of  him.  How  lightly  they  played  with 
human  destinies!  Then  he  conquered  his  sudden 
passion.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  affectionate  banter. 

"You  dear  Aunt — Henry  and  the  family  are  among 
the  earliest  of  my  recollections.  I  was  taught  Henry 
and  the  family  before  my  letters.  If  I  found  a  stray 
dog,  or  made  a  toy,  I  was  forced  to  hand  it  over  to 
Henry.  Why,  I  remember  I  gave  up  a  brilliant  of 
fer  to  enter  commercial  life — far  better  suited  to  my 
small  fortune  than  an  army  career — because  it  would 
not  lend  dignity  to  Henry  and  the  family."  The 
hard  tone  he  was  struggling  to  keep  down  crept  into 
his  voice.  "The  woman  I  marry  will  have  a  right  to 
expect  more  of  me  than  a  profound  respect  for  her 
money  and  a  laudable  desire  to  promote  Henry  and 
the  family." 

Lady  Elizabeth  perceived  the  suppressed  irritation, 
and  was  for  a  moment  touched  by  Jim's  reproaches. 

"One  must  pay  something  for  the  glory  and  privi 
lege  of  belonging  to  a  great  family." 

"Don't  you  think  we  pay  too  great  a  price,  dear 
Aunt?" 

"I  have  never  shirked  the  sacrifices." 

The  worn,  tremulous  face  looked  up  at  Jim  with 
eyes  that  were  unconscious  confessors  of  the  bitter 

79 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

struggle  her  life  had  been.     He  leaned  towards  her 
and  gently  took  her  hand. 

"No,  dear  Aunt,  you  haven't.  You  deny  yourself 
everything.  Don't  you  think  I  can  see  that  ?  You 
stint  yourself  to  the  point  of  shabbiness:  why,  your 
wardrobe  is  positively  pitiful!  And  Mabel — the  child 
has  had  no  proper  education,  no  advantages;  she  has 
never  been  anywhere,  nor  seen  anything,  nor  had 
anything — Henry  needed  the  money." 

"We  have  been  as  generous  to  you  and  Mabel  as 
we  could,  Jim.  We  must  keep  up  the  dignity  and 
position  of  the  head  of  the  family."  Like  a  war- 
horse  sniffing  the  powder  of  battle-fields,  at  the  words 
"family"  and  "dignity  of  its  head,"  Lady  Elizabeth's 
courage  rose.  In  the  moonlight  Jim  could  plainly  see 
the  determined  look  grow  on  her  face  until  it  formed 
granite-like  lines.  The  fox  might  eat  her  vitals,  but 
she  would  not  whimper.  The  torch  of  the  family  was 
the  light  of  her  declining  years,  as  it  had  been  of  her 
youth.  It  was  useless  to  argue  further,  Jim  told  himself. 

The  music  sounded  a  new  dance.  It  was  an  op 
portune  moment  to  escape. 

"You've  been  a  dear — I'm  not  complaining,  only  I 
don't  think  we  have  the  right  to  sacrifice  an  amiable 
lady  on  the  altar  of  our  obligations."  He  drew  his 
aunt  towards  him  and  leaned  over  the  seat.  "Be 
sides,  I  have  no  desire  to  marry  at  present,  so  we  won't 
speak  of  this  again,  will  we  ?"  As  he  spoke  he  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead.  "God  bless  you!  And  now  I 
must  be  off  to  help  Di  with  the  dancing." 

80 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

Lady  Elizabeth  rose.  It  was  impossible  to  resist 
his  tender  charr^,  b1  *  his  evident  indifference  to  her 
wishes  vexed  her.  H^  crossed  to  the  casement  and 
Lady  Elizabeth  called: 

"There's  an  occasional  streak  of  stubbornness  in 
you,  Jim/' 

He  smilingly  called  back.  "I  think  it  runs  in  the 
family,  doesn't  it,  Aunt  ?" 

As  he  went  into  the  house,  he  passed  Henry  and 
several  of  the  men  busily  discussing  the  condition  of 
the  Yeomanry,  and  the  Relief  Fund  that  was  doing 
such  excellent  work.  Here  Henry  proved  himself 
of  worth — of  his  interest  in  the  work  there  could  be 
no  doubt. 

As  Lady  Elizabeth  stood  alone  in  the  garden,  she 
was  conscious  that  her  recent  interviews  with  Jim  had 
been  most  unsatisfactory.  He  had  a  way  of  not 
taking  the  traditions  of  her  life  seriously;  he  discussed 
and  dismissed  them  lightly.  She  knew  that  Henry 
would  be  annoyed  at  Jim's  indifference  to  this  fortune 
within  his  grasp,  and  she  suspected  that  there  was  a 
cause  unknown  to  her  for  Henry's  nervous  and  upset 
condition. 

She  had  no  inclination  to  return  to  the  dance;  in 
stead,  she  crossed  to  the  seat  under  the  great  oak-tree, 
and  drew  her  lace  scarf  close  about  her.  The  garden 
was  quite  empty.  In  the  distance  the  yew-trees,  like 
a  line  of  ghostly,  fantastic  figures,  seemed  pregnant 
with  sinister  forebodings.  She  shivered;  it  was  grow 
ing  slightly  cold.  She  could  hear  the  dancers,  and 

81 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

from  the  card-players  in  the  house  came  sounds  of 
more  life  and  mirth.  Her  recent  desire  to  be  alone 
deserted  her — the  living  warmth  of  the  life  of  the 
crowds  within  her  reach  attracted  her.  The  sadness 
of  the  moaning  wind  in  the  trees  she  could  dispel  by 
returning  to  her  guests — she  would  do  so  and  assist 
Diana  in  her  duties.  As  she  started  to  leave  the  rose 
enclosure,  Henry  with  Sir  John  came  through  the 
open  casement. 

She  noticed  the  strained  look  on  Henry's  face  as  he 
said,  "No,  no,  I  haven't  done  it  yet.  But  we'll  pre 
pare  a  statement  in  good  time — leave  it  to  me.  I'm 
getting  tired  of  the  word  Fund — the  demands  of  the 
work  have  been  so  incessant." 

They  reached  Lady  Elizabeth.  Henry's  look  quick 
ly  told  her  that  he  wished  to  be  alone.  She  came  to 
his  assistance  as  she  said: 

"Don't  you  believe  him,  Sir  John.  He  really  thinks 
of  nothing  else.  But  won't  you  join  the  dancers  ? 
I'm  sure  Diana  will  need  you." 

Henry  quickly  added,  "Do,  and  forget  the  Fund 
for  a  moment."  As  Sir  John  disappeared  he  mut 
tered,  "And  let  me  forget  it." 

Lady  Elizabeth  heard  the  last  words  and  wondered. 
The  ugly  horns  on  his  brows  showed  the  irritable  state 
of  his  mind. 

"Well,"  he  quietly  said,  "what  did  Jim  say  to  the 
American  widow  ?  It  isn't  often  that  a  man  without 
a  title  gets  a  chance  like  that."  There  was  a  mo 
ment's  silence.  Lady  Elizabeth  would  have  pre- 

82 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

ferred  to  have  this  conversation  at  another  time; 
her  mind  was  anxious  about  Henry's  recent  words — 
what  did  they  forebode  ?  But  Henry  settled  himself 
in  a  big  chair,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  anxious  to 
learn  the  result  of  her  interview  with  Jim. 

"He  declines  positively,"  she  answered. 

Then  the  passion  he  had  been  fighting  to  keep  under 
broke  loose.  He  rose  and  began  pacing  the  walk. 

"Not  an  atom  of  consideration  for  me — eh?  In 
the  hopeless  struggle  I  make  to  live  up  to  the  tradi 
tions  of  my  race  ?"  Henry  could  always  work  him 
self  up  into  a  great  burst  of  self-pity. 

"Jim  is  an  anarchist  in  his  talk,  but  an  angel  at 
heart.  He  always  ends  by  doing  the  right  thing." 

This  defence  of  Jim  caused  Henry  to  stop  in  his 
walk.  That  his  mother  should  advocate  the  good 
ness  of  Jim  was  a  new  victory  for  his  cousin. 

"Jim  likes  to  play  the  saint,  confound  him,"  he 
barked,  "but  waking  or  sleeping,  he  never  takes  off 
his  halo." 

Lady  Elizabeth  crossed  to  him.  "He  says  he  has 
no  desire  to  marry  at  present." 

"That's  the  sickly  sentimental  pose  of  the  man  who 
loves  a  woman  beyond  his  reach,"  Henry  answered. 

Like  a  flame  of  illumination  the  innuendo  of  his 
words  brought  their  meaning  to  Lady  Elizabeth.  She 
remembered  so  much  and  yet  so  little  in  Jim's  actions 
of  late,  but  all  tended  towards  a  horrible  suspicion. 
She  could  still  see  Jim's  face  as  he  watched  Diana 
earlier  in  the  evening.  It  was  not  the  face  of  a  lover 

83 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

in  the  usual  sense.  It  was  a  face  glorified  by  an  un 
conscious  devotion  to  a  great  ideal.  All  she  could 
stammer  was: 

"You  mean—" 

But  Henry,  who  had  blurted  out  in  a  heat  of  temper 
more  than  he  felt  he  had  reason  for,  tried  to  ignore  the 
question  and  the  look  of  sudden  bewilderment  in  her 
eyes.  He  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair  as  he  said: 

"Never  mind,  mother;  it  doesn't  matter." 

But  Lady  Elizabeth  went  to  him,  and,  with  her  arms 
about  him,  whispered,  "My  son,  you  are  nervous,  pale, 
distrait.  You  have  been  so  for  some  time.  I  haven't 
spoken  of  it  for  fear  of  annoying  you,  but  others  are 
beginning  to  speak  of  it.  What  is  it  ?"  She  drew  his 
head  back  until  it  rested  against  her  breast.  "Can't 
you  trust  your  mother  ?" 

Instead  of  a  restive  withdrawal  from  her  embrace, 
he  let  her  soothe  his  head  with  her  half- trembling 
hands.  Why  not  tell  her  what  he  suspected  ? 

"Have  you  seen  Jim  and  Diana  much  together?" 

"Not  more  than  always,"  was  her  reassuring  reply. 

"  But,  mother,  have  you  observed  them  when  they 
are  together  ?" 

Lady  Elizabeth  slipped  down  on  the  seat  beside 
him. 

"My  boy,  your  suspicions  are  morbid  and  unjust 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  them,"  she  gently  urged. 
In  her  heart  she  feared  for  him  and  his  happiness  with 
Diana.  She  had  seen  the  girl  gradually  sicken  and 
turn  away  from  her  life  with  Henry.  Great  provoca- 

84 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

tion,  she  knew,  had  been  given  Diana,  but  at  present 
it  was  wiser  not  to  discuss  this  with  him,  but  to  calm 
him. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  and  buried  his  face  on 
his  arms. 

"Mother,  I  love  Diana.  I  have  my  faults,  but  that 
is  the  best  of  me.  I  love  her  desperately.  Oh,  I 
know  you're  going  to  say  that  at  times  I  haven't 
proved  by  my  actions  that  I  cared  for  her,  but  it's 
because  I  knew  from  the  beginning  that  I  never  could 
reach  her.  Does  she  love  me  ?  No,  I  can't  deceive 
myself.  She  was  devilled  into  marrying  me  for  the 
damned  title.  I  know  that  now.  The  best  I  can 
hope  for  is  that  she  should  not  utterly  despise  me,  and 
I  want  a  chance  to  win  her  love — my  God,  how  I  want 
it!  Everything  that  Jim  does  pleases  her.  She  ad 
mires  him;  I  can  see  it  clearly."  He  paused  as  the 
whirlwind  of  words  swept  from  him;  he  rose,  and 
towrered  over  his  mother.  "That  admiration  belongs 
to  me.  You've  spoiled  me,  mother.  I've  always  had 
what  I  wanted,  and  now  I'm  the  victim  of  it.  I'm 
the  selfish  monster  that  takes  everything  while  St. 
James  stands  modestly  in  the  background.  Oh, 
don't  you  see  you  have  made  him  her  hero,  not  me  r" 

He  began  to  move  restlessly  about  the  rose  paths, 
Lady  Elizabeth  following.  Indulgently  she  linked 
her  arm  through  his.  Although  a  fear  \vas  beginning 
to  persuade  her  of  the  truth  of  his  wild  words,  still,  she 
argued,  he  greatly  exaggerated.  That  he  cared  so 
deeply  for  Diana  promised  well  for  the  future,  and, 

85 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

with   her   aid,   Diana  would   soon   be   convinced   of 
Henry's  worthiness. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "is  that  all  you  have  to 
worry  over  ?" 

"No,  mother,  no —     I  wish  to  God  it  were." 

She  caught  hold  of  him  almost  savagely,  "  Ah — " 
she  gasped.  Then  the  apprehensions  that  had  torn 
her  for  days  had  been  justified.  She  feared  to  ques 
tion  further.  An  overwhelming  dread  held  her  in 
its  torturing  grip.  Henry  started  as  though  to  leave 
her;  his  face  was  averted,  she  turned  him  towards  her. 

"Money  again  ?"  she  asked. 

"  You  know  what  the  demands  on  me  are.  I  couldn't 
disgrace  my  family  by  going  into  bankruptcy,  and  I 
had  to  have  money.  Well — I  was  foolish  enough  to 
borrow— 

Lady  Elizabeth  knew  instinctively  the  words  that 
would  follow.  Her  hands  clinched  his  arm  so  tight 
that  he  shrank  under  the  pressure. 

"Borrow,  mind,"  he  continued,  "some  of  the  Fund's 
money." 

"The  Relief  Fund  ?     Oh,  Henry—" 

The  despair  and  horror  of  her  tone  caused  him  to 
put  his  arms  protectingly  about  her.  Even  in  his  own 
blind  fury  at  fate  he  could  see  her  shrink  from  her 
stately  strength  into  a  feeble  old  woman.  He  tried 
to  reassure  her. 

"Oh.  it's  really  all  right,  mater.  I'll  be  able  to  re 
place  it. 

"How?" 

86 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

She  clung  to  his  arm.  He  could  hear  the  quadrille's 
last  quarters  beginning;  it  would  be  impossible  to 
continue  this  conversation  much  longer. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,  mother.  You  see,  it's 
a  stock  transaction,  but  it's  all  right — bound  to  be. 
Hobbes,  of  Simpson  &  Hobbes,  you  know,  gave  me 
the  tip.  It  was  absolutely  inside  information." 

Lady  Elizabeth  loosened  her  hold,  and  with  a  hope 
less  gesture  moved  away.  Henry  read  her  lack  of 
faith  in  the  enterprise. 

"Oh,  I  took  the  trouble  to  verify  it."  He  did  not 
admit,  however,  that  he  had  sought  Petrie's  advice 
only  after  the  plunge,  when  the  waiting  had  grown 
too  fearful.  "I'm  expecting  a  telegram  to-night — • 
that's  the  reason  I'm  nervous.  But  I'll  have  enough 
to  put  back  the  sum  I've  borrowed,  and  a  nice  little 
fortune  besides.  Don't  you  worry."  But  even  as  he 
spoke  the  comforting  words  he  seemed  to  lose  the 
confidence  which  he  was  vainly  trying  to  assume. 
The  telegram  should  have  arrived  in  the  afternoon. 
He  knew  that  Petrie,  if  his  investigation  had  been 
at  all  hopeful,  would  have  sent  a  reassuring  word. 
Then,  that  the  strength  of  his  mother,  upon  which  he 
had  so  often  leaned,  should  crumble  away  as  he  con 
fessed  to  her,  that  he  should  be  forced  to  carry  her 
anxieties  instead  of  receiving  her  support,  terrified 
him  with  its  significance. 

It  was  all  quite  palpable  to  Lady  Elizabeth.  His 
drawn  face  with  eyes  like  burned-out  flames  showed 
how  the  fever  of  unrest  and  fear  consumed  him. 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Henry,  you  are  trying  to  reassure  yourself,  not 
me,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,  mother,  it  isn't  that.0  But  it  was  use 
less,  he  could  no  longer  play  a  part.  "Yes,  you're 
right,"  he  acknowledged  as  he  threw  himself  down  on 
the  great  stone  bench.  "My  God,  the  consequences! 
— the  consequences!" 

And  Lady  Elizabeth  stood  dumb  and  helpless. 
For  the  first  time  he  held  out  his  hands  to  her,  and 
she  was  unable  to  grasp  them  in  support.  She  could 
offer  no  respite  to  the  torture  of  suspense  he  endured. 

As  they  stood  in  silence,  Diana  came  from  the 
pergola,  "Dear  people,  are  you  moon-struck?  Our 
guests  are  missing  you." 

With  an  effort  Lady  Elizabeth  turned,  "Is  the 
dance  over  ?"  she  said. 

Henry's  words  followed  close:  "Have  we  been 
gone  very  long  ?" 

"Oh  no— but  you  see  they  have  stopped  bridge, 
and  the  men  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  Fund 
They  are  all  so  proud  of  our  extraordinary  result. 
They  want  a  statement  published  so  that  they  can 
gloat  over  the  envy  of  the  other  regiments/' 

"Published — a  statement!"  but  Diana,  who  was 
bending  over  some  roses,  hardly  noticed  the  strained 
speech,  and  Lady  Elizabeth  motioned  him  to  re 
strain  his  agitation. 

"First,  I  believe,"  Diana  continued  as  she  seated 
herself,  "there  is  a  committee  or  somebody  to  go  over 
the  accounts  and  what  do  they  call  it — I'9 

S3 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

" Audit  them/'  Henry  found  himself  mechanically 
saying. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  They  want  to  know  when  it  will 
be  convenient  to-morrow  for  you,  Henry." 

Quite  vaguely  he  said,  "Oh  yes — for  me." 

In  his  work  for  the  Yeomanry  and  his  characteristic 
British  loyalty  to  his  men,  Diana  found  one  great 
virtue  to  be  proud  of  in  Henry.  She  realized  this  as 
she  heard  the  men  discussing  his  efforts.  For  several 
days  a  growing  feeling  of  pity  for  his  misspent  life  had 
taken  hold  of  her  as  she  saw  what  he  really  could  do 
when  he  willed. 

"  You  are  a  great  man  with  the  Tenth,  Henry,"  she 
said.  "To  hear  them  talk,  one  would  think  you 
carried  the  regiment  in  your  pocket.  And  the  dear 
mother  there — to  see  her  listen  to  your  praises!  Oh, 
well,  it's  very  beautiful — you  both  had  better  go  and 
glory  in  some  more.  The  taste  for  adulation  will 
grow  insatiable  after  this — won't  it  ?"  As  she  spoke 
she  lifted  her  long,  slender  hands  and  fastened  them 
across  her  brows.  Henry  came  to  her.  She  was  very 
beautiful;  an  unusual  pallor  gave  her  face  a  delicate 
spirituality.  In  the  dim  light  her  soft  white  draperies, 
the  fluttering  scarf  ends,  and  the  wreath  of  green  leaves 
made  her  seem  half  a  sprite. 

"  Won't  you  return  with  us,  Di  r" 

"No — I  have  a  headache.  Til  stay  here  in  the  air 
for  a  few  moments." 

As  she  spoke,  Jim  came  towards  them. 

"The  next  is  our  dance,  Diana.  Will  you  come  ?" 

89 


THE  SQUAW   MAN 

Henry  answered  for  her  with  unmistakable  sarcasm. 

"Perhaps  Jim  will  stay  with  you,  Di,  as  you  have 
a  headache." 

And  Jim  innocently  replied,  "With  pleasure;  I've 
really  been  doing  duty  quite  assiduously  in  the  way 
of  dancing." 

He  crossed  to  Diana's  side.  Lady  Elizabeth,  who 
had  been  trying  to  divert  an  awkward  moment,  drew 
her  arm  through  Henry's.  Henry  looked  at  his 
mother's  face,  which  grew  tender  as  her  eyes  rested 
on  him. 

"I'm  afraid  my  wife  does  not  share  your  pleasure 
in  my  praises,  mater." 

"Oh  yes,"  Diana  answered,  "but  you  must  not 
expect  a  wife  to  have  the  illusions  of  a  mother."  It 
was  lightly  said,  to  cover  up  an  apparent  effort  on 
Henry's  part  to  cause  an  embarrassing  moment. 

Lady  Elizabeth  took  up  the  cue.  She  glanced  from 
Jim  to  Diana,  but  they  were  beginning  to  talk;  she 
almost  drew  Henry  forcibly  away  as  she  said  with 
forced  gayety,  "No — no  one  can  love  you  as  your 
mother  does,  dear/' 

She  little  knew  the  prophetic  truth  of  her  words  or 
to  what  length  her  mother-love  would  lead  her  before 
another  day  had  passed  at  the  Towers. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THESE  moments  of  respite  from  the  dancing  were 
peaceful,  Diana  thought,  as  Jim  drew  a  chair 
forward  and  seated  himself  beside  her.  She  was 
strangely  unsettled  to-night.  Her  head  ached  slight 
ly,  it  was  true,  but  she  was  conscious  that  ever  since 
Lady  Elizabeth's  remark  concerning  Jim  and  Sadie 
Jones,  a  curious  irritation  had  possessed  her.  She 
didn't  stop  to  reason  it  out,  but  plunged  at  once  into 
the  heart  of  the  matter. 

**I  congratulate  you,  Jim." 

"On  what?" 

"Your  brilliant  prospects." 

"We've  never  met — shouldn't  know  them  if  I  saw 
them." 

So  Diana  knew  too  of  the  scheme  to  secure  a  fortune 
for  the  house  of  Kerhill.  Jim  was  curious  to  learn  her 
point  of  view.  There  was  a  new  touch  of  bitterness 
in  Diana's  voice  that  puzzled  him. 

"Don't  let  them  beat  you  down  in  the  price,  Jim. 
If  you  sell  your  sweet  young  life,  let  it  be  at  a  good 
round  figure,  for  our  sakes."  The  scornful  mirth  of 
her  last  words  was  unmistakable. 

*'I  shall  always  be  a  joke  to  you,  Diana." 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

"Well,  if  our  whole  social  fabric  isn't  a  joke,"  Di 
interrupted,  "pray,  what  is  it  ?" 

"I  don't  belong  to  the  social  fabric.  I'm  an  out 
sider." 

Again  she  feverishly  interrupted. 

"Oh,  you  can't  escape.  You  are  up  on  the  block. 
Look  your  best,  and  try  to  bring  a  fancy  price.  We 
have  always  sold  our  women,  and  now  we  have  taken 
to  selling  our  men." 

For  a  moment  he  wondered  if  she,  too,  approved  of 
the  fortune  hunt. 

"Are  you  in  the  Chichester  Jones  conspiracy,  too  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Certainly,"  the  answer  came,  but  with  it  a  look 
that  plainly  contradicted  the  words.  She  was  in 
wild  spirits,  he  could  see;  he  let  her  run  on.  "You 
are  a  monster  of  selfish  obstinacy,  Jim.  Your  in 
ability  to  grasp  your  own  best  interests  and  ours — is 
a  proof  of  a  feeble  intellect — and  a  wicked  heart." 

Gayly  he  entered  into  her  mood.  "Well,  Diana," 
he  said,  "I'm  an  amiable  brute.  If  you  insist  upon 
it,  perhaps — " 

"Good,"  she  cut  in  quickly  as  she  jumped  up  on 
the  seat  and  clung  to  an  overhanging  bough.  "Let 
me  be  the  auctioneer;  I'll  get  you  a  good  price." 
Blithely  assuming  the  voice  and  manner  of  a  profes 
sional  auctioneer,  she  began:  "Step  up,  ladies — step 
up,  ladies.  Please  examine  this  first-class  specimen 
of  the  British  aristocracy.  He  is  kind  and  gentle, 
sound  in  mind  and  limb;  will  travel  well  in  double 

92 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

harness — has  blue  ribbons  and  medals,  and  a  pedigree 
longer  than  your  purses.  He's  for  sale;  how  much 
am  I  bid—" 

Jim,  who  laughingly  followed  her  words,  interrupted 
in  mock  seriousness: 

"One  moment  before  you  knock  me  down.  Have 
you  considered  the  existence  of  the  American  Peril  ? 
These  Yankees  are  driving  the  English  girls  out  of 
the  home  market.  I  believe  in  protection  for  the 
home  product  by  an  ad  valorem  tax  on  the  raw 
material  and  exclusion  for  the  finished  product — iri 
the  shape  of  widows.  I'm  a  patriot.  God  bless  our 
English  commerce — homes,  I  mean." 

Jim's  burst  of  nonsense  was  finished  by  a  "Hear, 
hear"  from  Diana.  Then  their  laughter  rang  out 
merrily.  Diana  clung  to  the  swaying  branch;  Jim, 
below  her,  like  Henry,  noticed  the  ethereal  quality  of 
her  beauty  that  night.  She  put  out  her  hands  to 
him. 

"Please,"  she  said,  and  he  helped  her  down.  Their 
light-heartedness  seemed  to  desert  them.  Mechani 
cally  he  kept  her  hand  in  his,  held  spellbound  by  her 
gracious  charm.  Diana  withdrew  her  hand  as  she 
said,  "Jim,  you're  a  boy  and  you'll  never  grow  up." 
Then,  because  shs  wished  him  to  reassure  her  of  his 
distaste  for  the  proposed  marriage,  she  said,  "Sadie 
Jones  is  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  and  you'll  miss  it." 

Jim  only  half  heard  her  words.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  strange  dread  of  remaining  longer  alone  with  her. 

"How  do  you  know  I  will  ?"  he  said. 

93 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

All  her  tender  faith  and  belief  in  him  was  in  her 
answer:  "Oh,  Jim,  I  know  you." 

Did  she  though  ?  Did  he  know  himself  ?  What  was 
this  wild  new  feeling  of  fear,  of  sweet,  elusive  pain  f 
His  words  gave  no  sign  of  the  tumult  of  his  thoughts. 

"Do  you?  Well,  you  couldn't  do  me  a  greater 
service  than  to  make  me  know  myself.  Fire  at  will." 

Diana,  too,  was  conscious  of  a  strange  undercurrent 
to  their  lighter  talk.  She  was  aware  of  Jim's  search 
ing  glances,  but,  like  him,  she  gave  no  sign  of  the 
vague  uneasiness  that  would  not  be  stilled. 

"Shall  I,  really?"  she  questioned. 

Jim  nodded. 

"Remember,  you've  brought  it  on  yourself."  She 
seated  herself  close  to  the  sundial,  and  half  leaned 
against  it.  Jim  was  facing  her.  "Well,  to  begin 
with,  you  will  never  wholly  succeed  in  life." 

"Dear  me,  I  meant  surgery,  not  butchery,  Di." 

She  paid  no  heed  to  the  interruption.  "You  are 
not  spiritual  enough  to  create  your  own  world,  and 
you  are  too  idealistic  to  be  happy  in  this  frankly 
material  world.  You  have  temperament  and  senti 
ment;  they  are  fatal  in  a  practical  age."  She  paused; 
there  was  no  denial  from  Jim.  As  she  waited  for 
him  to  speak,  her  eyes  rested  on  the  decorations 
glittering  on  his  coat.  "Your  breast  is  covered  with 
medals  for  personal  courage,  but  you  could  never  be 
a  great  general." 

He  almost  stopped  her  with  a  reminder  of  the  days 
on  the  Northwestern  Hills,  but  a  certain  truth  in  all 

94 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

that  she  said  kept  him  silent.  His  memory  went  back 
to  the  hours  in  which  he  had  fought — even  at  the 
sacrifice  of  himself — to  save  his  men.  He  heard  her 
say: 

"You  could  never  sink  your  point  of  view  to  the 
demands  of  necessary  horrors.  Confronted  with  the 
alternative  of  suffering,  or  causing  suffering,  you 
would  suffer."  She  rose,  and,  as  though  peering  into 
the  future,  said,  "You  are  marked  for  the  sacrifice." 

Her  face  shone  as  though  illumined  by  a  clairvoyant 
power  of  spiritual  insight.  She  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  the  present  and  stared  straight  ahead,  trying 
to  see  into  the  heavy  mists  that  enveloped  the  coming 
years.  Jim  made  an  effort  to  relax  the  nervous  ten 
sion  of  the  moment. 

"What  a  rosy,  alluring  picture!  A  failure  at  every 
thing  I  touch,  eh  ?  Have  I  one  redeeming  virtue  ?" 

But  although  the  voice  that  spoke  was  light  with 
raillery  he  was  possessed  by  an  uncontrollable  agita 
tion.  She  stood  with  a  haunted  look  of  such  intensity 
on  her  face  that  he  became  conscious  only  of  an  in 
finite  desire  to  protect  her.  As  he  came  close  to  her 
she  was  thrilled  by  the  vibrating  sympathy  that  drew 
them  together,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  The  strong, 
tender  face  of  Jim,  to  which  she  had  so  often  turned 
in  her  days  of  unspoken  despair,  gave  her  the  com 
prehension  and  sympathy  that  were  denied  her  by 
another.  She  thought  of  the  expression  of  Sadie 
Jones's  eyes  as  she  sang: 

"  Tout  passe,  tout  lasse." 
95 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Diana  knew  that  she  had  been  sending  her  song  out 
into  the  night  as  a  message  to  Jim  in  the  garden.  She 
thought  of  the  unacknowledged  sense  of  comfort  that 
Lady  Elizabeth  experienced  when  Jim  came  to  visit 
them.  Without  him,  what  would  the  days  be  ?  She 
shuddered  at  the  desolation  it  might  mean  to  be  with 
out  this  reliant,  forceful  friend.  As  it  all  flashed 
through  her  mind,  she  said: 

"  You  have  one  triumphant  quality,  Jim.  Whether 
it  will  add  to  your  sum  of  suffering  or  compensate  for 
all  the  rest,  who  knows  ?  You  have  one  inevitable 


success." 


She  paused,  but  the  rustling  of  the  tree-tops  pre 
vented  either  of  them  from  hearing  Henry  as  he  came 
from  the  pergola.  Diana  moved  a  step  nearer  to 
Jim  —  Henry  did  not  make  known  his  presence. 
Quite  simply  and  sincerely  she  said: 

"You  will  always  have  the  love  of  women,  Jim." 

Something  snapped  in  Jim's  brain.  He  stood 
hypnotized  by  a  stronger  force  than  his  own  will;  he 
could  not  speak.  Henry's  voice  sounded  like  the 
cracked  clang  of  a  jarring  bell  in  a  golden  silence. 

"  That's  a  dangerous  gift,  Jim.  Professional  heart- 
breakers  ought  not  to  be  allowed  in  other  people's 
preserves." 

Henry  spoke  quietly,  but  he  was  consumed  by  a 
mad,  unreasoning  fury.  Diana  simply  said,  "Oh,  I 
was  just  trying  to  tease  Jim  about  Sadie  Jones." 

Jim  started  towards  the  house,  intending  to  leave 
Di  with  Henry.  "Teasing — a  ruthless  grilling,  I  call 

96 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

it.  I've  been  vivisected,  Henry;  it's  not  a  pleasant 
experience,  believe  me." 

But  Henry,  who  was  looking  from  Diana  to  Jim, 
with  unmistakable  meaning,  said,  "You  stopped  at 
an  interesting — perhaps  a  critical — moment,  Diana. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon.  Where  lovers 
are  involved,  the  husband  is  an  intrusion,  almost  an 
impertinence." 

Jim  turned  and  retraced  his  steps.  Diana  did  not 
move.  Their  eyes  were  fastened  on  Henry's  face, 
now  flaming  with  passion.  All  Diana's  womanhood 
was  battling  within  her;  her  face  grew  tense,  her  eyes 
like  black  pansies.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  Jim's 
presence;  all  her  being  was  concentrated  in  the  chal 
lenge  of  her  eyes  as  she  let  them  strike  back  her 
answer. 

"You  are  making  a  grave  mistake,  Henry.  One 
that  you  will  regret  as  long  as  you  live." 

She  could  say  no  more;  she  wished  to  escape.  Why 
didn't  Jim  speak  ?  She  could  hardly  see  him.  An 
overwhelming  desire  to  leave  both  men  before  the 
sinking  trembling  of  her  body  should  overpower  the 
strength  of  her  will,  enabled  her  to  reach  the  house. 

The  men  were  alone;  both  had  watched  Diana 
gain  the  doorway.  Neither  seemed  capable  of  help 
ing  her.  Jim  was  the  first  to  move;  he  came  towards 
Henry  \vith  a  quick,  resolute  step.  Suddenly  he  be 
came  conscious  of  a  new  knowledge  that  checked  his 
speech.  He  could  only  stare  at  Henry,  while  the  wild 
beating  of  his  heart  tormented  him.  Much  had  been 

97 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

revealed  to  him  regarding  his  feeling  for  Diana,  dur 
ing  the  past  hour.    Henry  was  watching  him  furtively. 
"And  now,  sir,"  he  began,  "I  will  listen  to  you. 
You  have  had  time  to  think  up  a  plausible  explana 


tion.'3 


For  Diana  and  his  aunt's  sake  he  must  be  calm,  so 
Jim  only  answered,  "I  would  not  insult  you  or  Diana 
by  offering  one." 

The  quiet  scorn  of  Jim's  apparent  indifference 
maddened  Henry. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  He  drew  a  chair  forward.  "Sit 
down  and  confront  the  truth,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  on 
the  bench  opposite.  He  was  trembling  violently.  Jim 
still  maintained  his  composure.  Henry's  clinched 
hand  struck  the  table  as  he  sneeringly  exclaimed: 
"You  owe  everything  you  are  to  me." 

With  the  bitter  knowledge  of  how  much  he  had 
sacrificed  for  the  family,  quick  came  Jim's  reply: 

"You  mean  everything  I  am  not." 

But  Henry  did  not  notice  the  truth  of  Jim's  words. 
Ever  since  his  boyhood,  when  he  had  first  abused  his 
power  as  master  of  the  Towers,  he  had  been  irritated 
by  the  opposing  point  of  view  of  his  cousin — had  re 
belled  at  Jim's  success  in  making  a  place  for  himself 
in  the  world  without  his  help. 

"You  have  lived  in  my  house,"  he  said, "enjoyed 
my  bounty,  and  now — damn  you — " 

"Don't  say  it— don't!" 

Jim's  words  hit  at  Henry  across  the  table  like  points 
of  forked  lightning.  All  the  pent-up  feeling  of  years 

98 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

seemed  concentrated  in  the  utterance.  He  was  lean 
ing  far  across  the  table,  his  face  twitching  with  disgust 
at  Henry's  suspicions.  Like  Diana  he  sickened  at 
the  thought  that  Henry  could  believe  him  capable  of 
playing  so  degrading  a  part  in  Diana's  life. 

"Don't,"  he  continued,  "or  I'll  forget  myself — for 
get  the  respect  we  owe  her —  Even  as  he  spoke 
he  knew  that  Diana  was  the  supreme  concern  of  his 
life.  That  he  loved  her,  he  now  realized;  all  the 
misery  that  might  ensue  was  engulfed  in  the  supreme 
surrender  he  made  to  his  love,  the  love  that  uncon 
sciously  for  the  past  months  had  become  part  of  his 
life.  But  with  this  knowledge  came  clearly  the  in 
justice  that  Diana  and  he  were  being  subjected  to,  by 
a  mind  that  could  not  conceive  of  the  purity  of  her 
friendship.  "You — why,  you—  he  began  again, 
then  with  difficulty  controlled  himself. 

It  was  impossible  to  continue  this  conversation 
further;  any  moment  they  might  be  interrupted.  He 
could  not  determine  the  course  of  his  future  at  the 
moment,  but  he  could  save  her  the  discovery  of  his 
secret — he  could  save  her  further  humiliation  from 
Henry. 

"Henry,  you  must  have  been  drinking.  Go  to 
Diana  at  once,  before  she  realizes  what  you  said, 
before  it  is  too  late.  Go  and  make  your  peace  with 
her  for  this  outrage  against  her."  While  he  spoke  he 
was  trying  to  escape  from  the  knowledge  the  night 
had  brought.  He  watched  Henry,  who  in  a  dogged 
tone  said: 

QQ 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"It's  too  late  now.  It  has  always  been  too  late— 
with  me — and  Di." 

"Nonsense,"  Jim  said. 

Henry  mumbled  on  as  though  he  were  only  half 
aware  of  the  words  he  was  speaking. 

"Unless  you'd  intercede  for  me?  She'd  listen  to 
you." 

Jim  rose.  To  obtain  peace  and  dismiss  from 
Henry's  mind  all  suspicion  that  might  harm  Diana 
was  his  one  desire.  But  almost  before  he  was  on  his 
feet,  Henry  sprang  up  and  held  Jim  with  both  hands 
while  he  spluttered  in  frantic  abandon: 

"No,  no — I  couldn't  trust  you — I  couldn't  trust 
you." 

With  a  quick  movement  Jim  flung  Henry  off.  It 
was  useless  to  expect  sanity  from  this  trembling, 
fanatical  creature.  Without  a  word  or  look  he  left 
him,  and  Henry  stood  watching  Jim's  receding  fig 
ure  down  the  alley  of  trees. 

"And  now  I've  driven  out  of  her  life  the  only  in 
terest  in  it,  and  she  will  hate  me  for  that,  too." 

There  was  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do — he  must 
get  to  his  own  quarters  and  send  some  message  of 
excuse  to  his  mother.  He  turned  into  a  side  path. 
He  could  hear  the  dance  music  and  the  gayety  of  the 
groups  scattered  near  the  pergola.  Diana  was  there. 
He  could  see  her,  pale  but  with  perfect  poise,  assisting 
Lady  Elizabeth.  Even  Jim  was  at  Lady  Elizabeth's 
side.  He  envied  them  their  control;  in  his  condition 
it  would  be  folly  for  him  to  venture  near  them.  As  he 

100 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

turned  towards  the  house  he  met  Bates  carrying  a 
telegram.  ,  • .  .  -  .  . 

"I've  been  looking  tor  your  lordship,"  he  said. 
"The  message  came  about  half  an  hour  ago." 

He  remembered  Petrie  ind  the  expected  word  as 
he  tore  open  the  wire.  It  read: 

"  Impossible  to  give  any  definite  news.  Still  probing 
matter.  Will  be  down  to-morrow  afternoon." 

God! — and  he  had  this  to  add  to  his  night's  vigil! 
Bates  left  him.  He  threw  out  his  arms  as  he  stumbled 
into  a  chair.  He  knew  and  admitted  that  he  alone  \vas 
responsible  for  it  all.  But  he  did  not  know  that  he 
had  fanned  to  life  the  love  that  Diana  and  Jim  now 
acknowledged  to  themselves  for  the  first  time.  That 
night  their  fight  for  happiness  began. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  the  Towers  four  desperate  souls  fought  their 
battle,  and  to  none  of  them  did  the  dawn  bring 
comfort.  In  her  room  Lady  Elizabeth  sat  motionless 
before  her  open  window,  and,  like  Agrippina,  saw  the 
long  line  of  destruction  that  the  child  she  had  borne 
had  brought  to  her  and  to  her  house.  Shortly  before 
the  end  of  the  evening's  entertainment,  she  had  re* 
ceived  a  message  from  Henry,  begging  to  be  excused, 
as  a  matter  of  great  importance  had  arisen  which  pre 
vented  him  from  remaining  with  his  guests. 

Once  she  thought  of  venturing  to  go  to  him,  as  she 
listened  to  his  restless  pacing  above  her,  but  fear  of 
his  displeasure  and  a  physical  shrinking  from  a  pain 
ful  scene  forced  her  to  keep  her  watch  alone.  To 
night's  confession  of  his  use  of  the  Fund  was  the 
gravest  of  his  many  offences;  she  could  not  shake  her 
self  free  of  its  grave  consequences.  Along  with  it 
came  the  memory  of  the  faces  of  Jim  and  Diana  as  she 
had  last  seen  them  at  midnight.  The  guests  had  de 
parted;  Diana  was  entering  her  own  apartments,  while 
from  the  landing  Lady  Elizabeth  could  see  Jim  below 
her  as  he  started  for  the  garden.  Both  their  faces 
were  stamped  with  a  new,  vital  truth  which,  in  its 

102 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

immensity,  they  seemed  to  find  difficult  to  grasp.  She 
recalled  the  wistful,  inquiring  expression  of  Diana's 
look  as  she  turned  to  call  her  good-night  to  Jim. 
Even  more  vividly  she  recalled  the  answer  of  his  eyes. 
The  mute,  unspoken  thoughts  that  lay  there  were 
haunting  her  now  with  their  tragic  possibilities.  A 
numb  fear  possessed  her. 

Above  her,  Henry's  monotonous  steps  continued; 
her  imagination  began  to  play  tricks  with  her.  The 
steady  tread  above  seemed  to  change  into  the  tentative, 
faltering  toddle  of  a  baby  boy;  she  remembered  that 
the  room  over  her  was  the  old  nursery,  now  used  by 
Henry  for  his  own  apartment.  How  often  she  and 
his  father  had  listened  and  rejoiced  at  the  stumbling 
efforts  which  they  could  hear  in  the  early  morning! 
The  terrible  sympathy  of  a  mother's  sorrowing  womb, 
that  can  reach  the  most  poignant  of  all  human  an 
guish,  caused  her  suddenly  to  start  to  her  feet;  a 
physical  craving  to  hold  again  the  tiny  body  firm 
against  her  own,  and  ease  this  suffering,  overpowered 
her.  She  could  hear  the  broken  steps  of  the  long  ago; 
she  could  see  only  the  naked,  mottled  body  of  the 
sturdy  chap  that  she  had  so  often  clasped  close  and 
smothered  with  her  kisses.  She  stretched  out  her 
arms  as  if  in  search  of  it.  The  longing  to  touch  again 
the  soft  warm  flesh  of  her  own  creation  became  in 
tense,  from  her  wildly  beating  heart  to  the  tightly 
contracted  throat  there  grew  a  spasm  of  pain  that 
ended  in  a  long,  broken  sob.  She  forgot  all  the  years 
of  suffering,  the  disappointments,  and  to-night's 
&  103 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

crowning  tragedy  of  Henry's  wilful  treachery  to  her 
and  his  house. 

She  was  the  young  mother  again.  The  half  shy, 
inquiring  face  of  the  babe  with  its  tight  corkscrew 
curls,  as  she  had  seen  him  first  walk  across  the  long 
nursery  to  fall  into  her  arms  at  the  open  doorway,  was 
all  that  she  could  remember.  Other  ghosts  crowded 
into  the  room;  the  husband  of  her  love-days — for 
Elizabeth  Kerhill  had  passionately  loved  her  boy's 
father — stood,  as  he  often  had  stood,  close  behind  her 
at  the  nursery  door  and  joyed  with  her  at  the  beauty 
of  its  tiny  occupant.  The  old  wound,  which  nature 
mercifully  in  the  passage  of  years  had  alleviated,  again 
ached  as  it  had  in  the  first  hours  of  her  great  sorrow  at 
his  death. 

Suddenly  the  pacing  above  ceased.  She  became 
conscious  of  a  terrible  anxiety  to  know  why;  she 
feared  the  stillness;  the  steady  beat  had  been  an  un 
conscious  comfort.  Her  tired  brain  grew  more 
fanciful.  Did  she  imagine  or  did  she  really  see  the 
pale  spectre  of  her  husband  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  beckoning  her  to  follow  him  ?  He  seemed  to 
open  the  door  into  the  corridor  and  disappear  into  the 
gloom.  There  was  a  slight  movement  from  above, 
significant  in  its  abruptness;  it  was  as  though  a  quick 
decision  had  been  made  by  Henry.  Down  the  cor 
ridor  she  fled,  obeying  a  compelling  instinct.  The 
pale  mist  of  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  was  struggling 
through  the  distant  windows.  She  remembered  a 
similar  hurried  rush  to  the  nursery,  when  the  tiny, 

104 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

twisted  body  was  attacked  with  writhing  convulsions. 
Quickly  she  sped  along  the  hallway,  around  a  twisted 
enclosure,  and  up  the  broad  staircase  until  she  reached 
the  nursery.  Without  a  pause  she  swung  open  the 
heavy  oak  door;  then  she  knew  why  the  warning  had 
come  to  her. 

At  the  creaking  of  the  door,  Henry  started;  he  was 
unaware  that  it  had  remained  unlocked.  For  a 
moment  he  stared  at  his  mother  as  though  she  were 
an  apparition.  He  was  standing  near  the  open  drawer 
of  a  huge  desk;  the  glint  of  fire-arms  in  it  shone  clear 
against  the  flicker  of  the  spluttering  candles.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  move.  His  eyes  were  held  by  the 
figure  at  the  door,  but  no  words  came  from  the  mov 
ing  lips  of  Lady  Elizabeth.  Instinctively,  both  their 
glances  went  to  the  open  drawer  with  its  certain  means 
of  death.  Henry  turned  away;  he  tried  to  close  the 
case.  Through  the  silent  room  came  the  sobbed 
name  of  his  childhood  days. 

«Ba-ba!     Ba-ba!" 

He  felt  her  strong  arms  fasten  tight  around  him; 
unresisting,  he  was  gathered  up  close  against  the 
trembling  body  of  his  mother,  as  she  drew  him  down 
into  a  big  settle.  He  made  no  attempt  to  speak.  He 
heard  only  the  name  of  his  babyhood  in  his  moth 
er's  moans,  as  she  pressed  his  tense  face  to  hers, 
kissed  the  faunlike  ears,  while  her  hands  strayed, 
as  they  used  to  do,  over  the  long  limbs  that,  re 
laxed,  lay  helpless  against  hers.  The  old  nursery 
again  held  her  treasure,  and  mechanically  the  trem- 

105 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

ulous    lips    fell    to    crooning    a   long  -  forgotten  lul 
laby. 

Gradually  he  slept  with  his  head  on  her  breast. 
Straight  and  stiff  the  early  shadows  found  her,  while 
the  bitter  tears  furrowed  her  face,  as  she  held  her 
child,  warm  and  alive,  against  her  heart.  During  the 
long  hours  of  her  vigil  she  heard  distinctly  the  crunch 
ing  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel-walk  outside  as  some 
one  passed  and  repassed  the  east  wing.  But  she  was 
little  concerned  with  the  world  without. 

Below,  unconscious  of  the  tragedy  so  close  to  him, 
Jim,  whose  step  it  was  Lady  Kerhill  had  heard  on 
the  gravel-path,  fought  through  the  long  night  for  his 
right  to  happiness.  His  entire  horizon  seemed  block 
ed  by  the  unyielding  figures  of  Lady  Elizabeth  and 
Henry;  behind  them,  tantalizing  him  with  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  vision,  he  could  see  Diana's  face  illumined 
with  its  new  light  of  wonder.  The  heavy  dews,  which 
gave  to  the  old  garden  its  fragrant,  green,  sweet  odors, 
drenched  him  as  he  paced  along  the  path  under  the 
giant  trees.  He  was  insensible  to  his  wet  clothes — to 
the  tumbled  hair  which  the  dampness  knotted  about 
his  head  in  kinky  curls.  The  tangle  of  his  thoughts 
proved  too  difficult  for  him  to  unravel;  the  night  had 
been  so  charged  with  emotions  that  he  could  hardly 
look  truthfully  into  his  own  heart.  The  hours  passed 
as  he  paced  restlessly,  dazed  and  overwhelmed  by  the 
chaotic  uprooting  of  all  his  being.  Aimtesslv  he  at 
last  wandered  towards  the  Fairies'  Corner,  and  sought 

100 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

rest  on  the  rudely  fashioned  seat,  dented  and  marked 
with  his  boyish  carvings.  There  he  lay  haunted  by 
intangible  dreams  until,  overcome  by  weariness,  he 
crept  close  into  his  old  corner  and  slept. 

The  strong  orange  shafts  of  sunrise  were  lighting  up 
the  hill-side  opposite  Diana's  window  as  she  stealthily 
crept  down  and  let  herself  out  of  the  silent  house  into 
the  garden.  The  mounds  close  to  the  Towers  were 
covered  with  great  splashes  of  heather,  while  the  moor 
beyond  dipped  and  stretched  far  away  like  a  trailing, 
purple,  overblown,  monster  flower,  which  seemed, 
mushroom-like,  to  have  sprung  up  during  the  night. 
Diana's  first  sight  of  the  brilliant  coloring  that  came 
every  July  to  the  heather-covered  hill-side,  brought  now 
as  always  bitter  memories  of  her  first  summer  in  Scot 
land,  where  as  a  young  bride  the  illusions  of  her 
virgin  mind  and  heart  had  been  shattered  by  Henry. 

She  turned  away  from  its  flaunting  beauty  with  a 
shudder.  No  memories  of  the  past  had  been  hers 
during  the  night;  why  should  she  allow  the  old  pain 
and  heartache  to  come  back  ?  She  alone  in  the  great 
house  had  given  herself  up  to  delicious  reveries  that 
tempted  her;  every  thought  of  Henry,  her  father,  and 
the  ties  that  bound  her,  she  ignored.  She  never 
questioned  what  had  changed  her  since  she  had  left 
Henry,  outraged  at  his  vile  suspicions.  Why  probe 
into  the  cause  of  her  happiness  ?  Enough  that  she 
could  rejoice,  silently,  if  need  be,  without  a  reason 
acknowledged  even  to  herself,  for  her  joy.  But  the 

107 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

dawn  brought  with  it  only  feverish  longing  to  reach 
the  cool  of  the  hill-side,  and  now  the  blooming  riot 
of  purple  tones  had  struck  at  her  like  a  menacing 
ghost.  She  plunged  into  a  thicket,  and,  sinking  knee- 
deep  in  its  luxuriant  growth,  made  her  way  across  a 
yellow  meadow.  Finally  she  reached  the  copse  of 
trees  through  which  she  could  see  the  Elizabethan 
gables  of  the  back  of  the  house. 

Oh,  the  beauty  of  the  unstained  day!  Like  every 
weary  wayfarer  exploring  for  the  first  time  since  child 
hood  the  fresh  virgin  country-side,  her  soul  cried  aloud 
its  appreciation  of  this  beauty  of  soft  green,  wet  glisten 
ing  flowers,  crystal  clear  air,  and  what  is  utterly  un 
known  save  to  the  frequenters  of  the  first  hours  of 
dawn  in  forests  and  glades,  the  ecstatic  perfume  of  the 
early  breezes.  Across  the  hedges  from  their  king 
dom,  the  flower-garden,  came  these  ripples  of  scented 
air,  heavy  with  the  breath  of  honeysuckle,  rose,  phlox, 
and  heliotrope. 

Like  Jim,  she  unconsciously  turned  to  the  Fairies' 
Corner.  As  she  reached  the  narrow  aperture,  and  its 
wet  earthy  smell  drowned  the  sweet,  sensuous  odors 
of  the  garden  blossoms,  she  espied  the  sleeping  figure 
on  the  old  bench.  At  the  unexpected  discovery  she 
gave  an  involuntary  exclamation.  Jim  was  lying  on 
his  back,  with  his  head  on  his  arm,  all  the  wet  stain 
of  the  night  passed  in  the  garden  showing  on  his  un 
changed  evening  clothes,  while  the  unkempt  hair  gave 
a  curious  boyishness  to  his  face. 

Diana  waited  for  him  to  move,  but  her  surprised 

1 08 


THE    SQUAW    MAN 

ejaculation  had  failed  to  awaken  him.  How  big  and 
wonderful  he  was!  The  thick  lashes  swept  his  bro\vn 
face  with  its  dull  touch  of  red  showing  under  the 
olive  skin.  As  she  bent  over  him  and  wras  about  to 
touch  his  hand  to  arouse  him  he  opened  his  eyes. 

He  had  been  dreaming  that  he  was  in  the  hospital 
in  the  Hills  after  the  fight,  and  in  his  delirium  he  was 
back  at  the  Fairies'  Corner  with  Diana — and  there 
she  stood  looking  at  him,  but  his  eyes  seemed  unable 
to  grasp  the  reality  of  the  moment. 

"Jim,  Jim,"  she  said. 

It  was  no  dream.  With  a  rush  of  memory  it  all 
came  back  to  him.  He  quickly  rose  to  his  feet  and 
came  towards  her,  impelled  by  an  uncontrollable 
force.  Cobwebs  of  sunlight  were  making  glinting 
spaces  against  the  gray-and-green  enclosure;  a  move 
ment  began  in  the  tree-tops  that  brought  back  the 
childish  reminiscence  of  the  rustling  fairy  wings.  He 
forgot  everything.  He  only  knew  that  she  stood 
there  like  an  essence  of  delight  to  ease  his  aching  being. 
The  still  wonder  of  the  evening  before  was  again 
shining  in  her  luminous  face. 

He  lifted  her  hands  to  his  shoulders,  and  held  them 
fast  there.  To  her  awakening  womanhood  he  seemed 
like  a  young  god  of  nature,  who  had  bathed  in  the 
primeval  springs  and  had  arisen  glorified  and  over 
whelming  in  his  forcefulness.  They  stood  speechless, 
their  gaze  fastened  each  on  the  other's  face,  while  the 
moments  slipped  away.  How  long  they  stood  tnere 
neither  realized:  the  burning  intensity  of  the  moments 

109 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

told  them  more  than  any  words  could  have  conveyed. 
Both  now  knew  the  truth — it  downed  them  with  its 
unflinching  eyes;  they  knew  that  they  were  peering 
close  into  the  core  of  life,  that  they  had  touched  at  the 
vital  springs  of  the  Great  Game.  Strong  and  incessant 
as  the  beat  of  the  swaying  tree-tops,  the  bitter  knowl 
edge  was  forced  upon  them  that  they  could  no  longer, 
even  to  themselves,  play  a  part.  Their  months  of 
unconscious  self-deception  had  that  night  been  slain; 
each  knew  that  love  triumphant  had  come  into  his 
own. 

From  the  camp  in  the  park  beyond  came  the  sound 
of  the  bugle  calling  the  men  to  their  early  morning 
duties.  It  roused  Jim  and  Diana  to  the  consciousness 
of  the  workaday  world.  Diana  was  the  first  to  move; 
she  slipped  her  hands  away  from  his  shoulders,  while 
she  still  had  the  strength  to  do  so.  Jim  silently  started 
towards  her,  his  eyes  showing  the  surrender  of  his 
love.  She  could  read  all  that  they  asked;  her  name 
broke  from  his  lips  in  tender  reiteration. 

"Di,  dear— dear  Di!" 

But  this  time  the  out-stretched  hands  waved  him 
back. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  and  down  the  long  copse  she 
fled  from  him. 

Alone,  Jim  realized  that  they  had  been  on  the  edge 
of  a  great  precipice.  Gradually  it  came  upon  him 
that  there  was  only  one  way  to  save  himself — to  save 
Diana;  he  must  go  away.  When,  how — it  all  mat 
tered  little — later  he  would  decide  that.  He  managed 

no 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

to  reach  his  room  unobserved.  How  could  he  face 
the  day's  responsibilities,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  heard 
rising  from  below  the  sounds  of  the  life  of  the  house, 
and  knew  that  the  duties  of  the  camp  were  awaiting 
him. 

Towards  noon  in  his  tent  a  letter  was  brought  to 
him.  It  was  from  Diana.  Trembling  he  tore  it  open 
and  read: 

"  DEAR  JIM, — Our  meeting  this  morning  has  revealed  me 
to  myself.  If  you  can  find  it  in  your  interest,  I  hope  you 
will  leave  England.  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  say  anything 
more  but  good-bye.  DIANA." 

"Revealed    me    to    myself,"    he    repeated.     "Oh, 
Diana,  Diana,"  he  whispered. 
Yes,  he  must  go. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"TT7HEN  Mr.  Petrie   comes,  show  him  to  me 

V  V    here,"  Henry  gave  orders  to  Bates. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  he  was  alone  in  the 
rose  enclosure — the  library  had  proved  too  stifling. 
He  had  managed  to  attend  the  afternoon's  drill,  and 
discharge  without  comment  the  duties  required  of  him 
by  his  guests.  The  Bishop  and  a  great  number  of 
visitors  were  still  in  the  park.  Diana,  on  the  plea  of 
illness,  had  remained  in  her  room,  but  had  sent  word 
that  she  would  be  down  at  tea-time.  Absorbed  in  his 
own  reflections  Henry  hardly  observed  that  Jim  was 
passing  the  entire  day  in  camp  with  the  troops.  That 
the  farce  of  the  day's  pleasure  was  nearly  over,  was 
his  most  comforting  thought;  a  few  hours  more  and 
the  house-party  would  disperse.  If  only  Petrie  would 
come. 

"No  news,  good  news;"  over  and  over  he  tried  to 
comfort  himself  with  the  old  saw. 

Lady  Elizabeth,  if  she  had  remembered,  would  have 
warned  him  of  the  intended  presentation,  but  the  night 
with  its  torturing  memories  had  made  her  forget 
utterly  the  surprise  arranged  by  the  Bishop  and  Sir 
John. 

112 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Henry  looked  at  his  watch  —  it  was  past  four. 
Would  Petrie  never  come  ?  He  cursed  the  hour  in 
which  he  had  listened  to  the  tempting  voice  that  urged 
him  to  speculate  in  a  mine  controlled  by  Hobbes. 
He  reme  nbered  the  night  he  had  finally  agreed  to 
enter  into  the  game,  and — then,  a  loss  here  and  an  un 
expected  blow  there  had  disastrously  crippled  his 
resources. 

Money  had  been  necessary  to  protect  the  already  in 
vested  fortune.  The  Fund  was  under  his  control — 
Why  not  use  it  temporarily  ?  He  used  the  word 
"borrow"  to  his  mother,  and  he  had  tried  for  weeks 
to  ease  his  mind  with  the  same  word,  but  he  knew 
that  the  world  had  an  ugly  name  for  such  "borrow 
ing."  WTierever  he  turned  he  could  see  five  blaz 
ing  letters  —  the  flaming  stigma  was  beginning  to 
burn  in  his  brain.  Was  there  no  way  of  protecting 
himself  a  little  longer  ?  He  closed  his  eyes  and  tried 
to  think. 

No,  it  would  be  impossible  to  evade  the  request  of 
the  committee.  To  elude  the  young  curate,  Chiswick, 
had  not  been  difficult.  On  the  plea  of  his  devotion 
to  the  cause,  he  had  succeeded  in  controlling  all  the 
papers  and  accounts  for  the  past  week,  but  now — a 
cold  perspiration  began  to  ooze  over  his  body;  it  was 
followed  by  hot  flashes  that  tormented  him  like  the 
five  fantastic  little  demons  ever  before  his  vision,  as 
they  twisted,  contorted,  shaped,  and  reshaped  them 
selves  into  one  hideous  imputation.  An  hour  before, 
he  had  promised  to  give  to  his  secretary  the  keys  of 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

his  desk;  to  put  off  the  auditing  any  longer  would 
have  aroused  suspicion.  His  only  hope  now  was  that 
perhaps  the  absorbing  interest  in  the  last  day  of  the 
manoeuvres  would  give  him  another  twenty-four  hours 
leeway.  If  Petrie  brought  reassuring  news  he  might 
be  able  to  realize  the  necessary  amount  and  prevent 
discovery.  He  poured  himself  some  brandy.  Just 
as  he  raised  the  glass,  Bates  announced: 

"Mr.  Petrie,  my  lord." 

The  glass  slipped  to  the  ground;  Bates  stooped  to 
remove  the  fragments.  Johnston  Petrie  advanced 
with  perfect  composure  and  shook  Henry's  trembling 
hand. 

"Your  lordship,"  he  said.  Then  both  men  waited 
until  Bates  disappeared  towards  his  quarters.  To 
Henry  the  moment  seemed  an  eternity. 

They  were  alone,  and  yet  neither  spoke.  Through 
Petrie' s  mind  ran  a  memory  of  having  stood  there 
long  ago  and  conferred  with  the  late  Earl,  while  the 
man  before  him  as  a  boy  sat  on  his  father's  knee.  He 
knew  nothing  of  Henry's  use  of  the  Fund;  he  only 
knew  that  he  was  bringing  news  of  a  big  loss  to  his 
client.  Henry's  face  as  he  grasped  Petrie  to  steady 
himself,  told  him  something  of  the  importance  at 
tached  to  his  report. 

"Well,  Petrie,  well?  Speak  —  man.  Don't  you 
see  you  are  killing  me  ?  Hobbes — what  of  Hobbes  ?" 

Truthfully,  Petrie  answered:  "Hobbes  is  a  fugi 
tive — the  whole  scheme  was  a  gigantic  swindle.  Every 
penny  invested  is  irremediably  lost." 

114 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Almost  before  he  had  finished  speaking,  from  the 
various  side  -  paths  leading  towards  them  came  the 
sound  of  voices.  Henry  made  a  staggering  move 
ment  as  though  to  escape  towards  the  house,  but  his 
way  was  blocked  by  Sadie  Jones,  who  had  gone  at  the 
Bishop's  request  to  fetch  Diana.  As  Henry  stared 
at  the  advancing  groups  he  saw  himself  already  con 
victed.  What  was  the  meaning  of  this  unusual  gather 
ing  of  officers  and  men  silently  falling  into  lines  be 
hind  the  circle  of  friends  who  surrounded  him  ?  He 
supported  himself  by  his  chair.  Petrie  quickly  real 
ized  the  situation  as  he  saw  a  sergeant  approaching 
with  an  open  case  containing  the  gift  of  the  big  lov 
ing-cup.  He  tried  to  reach  Henry,  but  Lady  Eliza 
beth  anticipated  him.  She  had  recalled  too  late  the 
demonstration  arranged  to  take  place  at  tea  -  time. 
There  was  a  moment's  hush.  A  little  way  off  the 
servants  were  gathering  to  witness  the  honor  shown 
to  their  master,  and  the  enclosure  about  Henry  was 
quickly  crowded. 

Henry  clung  to  his  support.  He  could  distinguish 
all  the  faces  quite  plainly,  except  Jim's.  Where  was 
Jim  ?  Muffled,  as  though  coming  from  a  long  dis 
tance,  he  heard  the  Bishop's  voice: 

"My  lord,  I  am  so  overwhelmed  with  the  signifi 
cance  of  this  delightful  occasion  and  my  own  imper 
fections  as  a  speaker,  that  I  could  have  wished  my 
task  to  have  fallen  into  better  hands.  But  when  I 
was  approached  in  the  sacred  name  of  charity  and  of 
mat  nooie  cause  so  dear  to  all  our  hearts,  the  relief 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

and  succor  of  the  widows  and  orphans  of  the  brave 
men  who  have  given  their  lives  in  the  smoke  of  battle, 
I  felt  I  ought  to  be  sustained  by  your  own  noble 
example.  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  lofty  nature  of  your 
lordship's  services  to  the  Fund- 
Henry's  impassiveness  began  to  desert  him:  "Liar! 
liar!"  shrieked  the  little  demons  as  they  came  in  a 
swarm  towards  him.  He  closed  his  eyes. 

"In  accepting  this  very  beautiful  loving-cup," 
droned  the  Bishop. 

But  it  had  gone  too  far.  His  greatest  pride — his 
regiment,  his  men,  their  Fund  —  was  his  greatest 
dishonor.  Better  discovery  —  anything  rather  than 
this  awful  continuation.  He  swayed — Petrie  caught 
him;  there  was  a  moment's  surprised  ejaculation  from 
the  crowd. 

Lord  Kerhill  was  ill.  The  heat  had  been  intense 
during  the  afternoon  drill.  It  was  noticed  then  that 
he  was  unwell — and  so  the  tactful  excuses  went  from 
one  to  another  as  Henry  was  assisted  by  Petrie  to  the 
library.  But  Lady  Elizabeth,  with  some  hurried 
orders  to  Petrie,  turned  to  the  assembled  guests. 

"My  lord  Bishop,  some  one  has  said  *  speech  is  but 
broken  light  falling  on  the  depths  of  the  unspeakable.' 
This  in  thanks  for  the  great  honor  done  our  house. 
I  am  sure  my  son's  inability  to  reply  is  more  due  to 
your  eloquent  tribute  than  to  his  slight  indisposition. 
Won't  you  allow  the  tea  to  be  served  ?  Lord  Kerhill 
will,  I  am  sure,  join  you  very  shortly/' 

Imperiously  she  took  command  of  the  situation, 

116 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

and  soon  the  waiting  servants  were  dispensing  tea, 
while  the  guests  discussed  the  beauties  of  the  cup 
that  lay  in  its  velvet  case,  as  if  nothing  unusual  had 
happened.  Then  quietly  she  made  her  way  to  Henry. 
She  found  him  alone,  and  motioned  him  to  follow 
her  into  a  small  room  adjoining  the  library;  it  had 
been  a  prayer-closet  in  the  past  for  a  devout  Kerhill, 
but  during  recent  years  it  had  been  used  as  a  smok 
ing- den,  with  old  sporting-prints  and  curious  whips 
and  spurs  in  place  of  the  prle-dieu  and  the  crucifix. 
Drawing  the  bolt  across  the  oak  door,  Elizabeth 
Kerhill  turned  and  faced  her  son. 

"Henry,  what  is  it?" 

"The  South  American  Security  Company  —  a 
swindle.  Hobbes  a  fugitive — for  me  exposure." 

Lady  Elizabeth  realized  that  if  salvation  were  to 
come  to  him  it  must  be  through  her. 

"To  prevent  this  exposure,  you  must  not  lose  your 
self-control.  We  must  think — not  feel — think  what 
we  can  do,"  she  began. 

And  Henry  answered,  calmly,  "I  must  blow  my 
brains  out." 

"Dear  God!"  her  heart  prayed  as  she  watched  him. 
His  dull  impassiveness  frightened  her  more  than  any 
madness  of  rebellion;  he  meant  this — it  was  no  idle 
boast.  Had  she  only  delayed,  not  prevented,  the 
contemplated  tragedy  of  the  night  before  ?  Tightly 
she  buckled  on  her  armor  of  mother-love.  She  must 
fight — fight  him — the  world,  if  necessary,  but  she 
must  win.  She  put  all  the  sickening  hurt  and  broken 

"7 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

courage  behind  her.  She  must  obtain  help — from 
whom  ?  In  the  mean  time  she  must  distract  and 
arouse  him  from  this  awful  apathy  of  resignation  to 
his  disgrace.  While  these  thoughts  were  flashing 
through  her  brain  she  answered: 

"If — "  she  paused,  she  could  not  say  the  word. 
"If — that — "  she  half  whispered,  "would  cover  up 
the  shame — but  it  wouldn't.  No;  no  Earl  of  Kerhill 
must  go  into  history  as  a — " 

"Thief!"  Henry  supplied  the  word.  It  was  a 
relief  to  speak  it.  "You  might  as  well  say  it — no  one 
else  will  hesitate  to  do  so." 

His  voice  shook,  but  he  still  maintained  his  stoicism. 

"You  had  no  intention  to  do  wrong,  my  poor  boy, 
I  know  it,  but  no  one  will  believe  that  but  your 
mother.  It's  my  fault  too  in  some  way,  I  suppose." 
The  agonized  mother's  consciousness  of  failure  in 
shaping  her  child's  character  broke  from  her.  "I'd 
willingly  take  the  blame  on  my  shoulders  if  I  could." 

He  held  her  hands  tighter.     She  knelt  beside  him. 

"Let's  see.  No  one  has  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  Fund  except  you,  Chiswick,  and  Jim" — the 
thought  of  Jim  brought  reassurance.  Jim  perhaps 
could  help  them  in  some  way  to  evade  discovery. 
"Jim — Jim,"  she  reiterated. 

Henry  answered  her  unspoken  thought.  "Jim 
and  I  quarrelled  last  night." 

"Quarrelled — about  what?" 

"Diana." 

"Diana?" 


THE   SQUAW    MAX 

"They  were  spooning  last  night — I  caught  them. 
He  loves  Di" — and  under  his  breath  he  cursed  him. 
She  hardly  heard  the  last  words.  Jim  loved  Diana 
— her  resolve  was  formed.  She  must  see  Jim. 

"Henry,  try  to  control  yourself  and  return  to  our 
guests.  Let  no  one  leave  this  afternoon  under  the 
impression  that  you  are  in  trouble." 

"'Why — "  he  began  to  expostulate — but  she  had 
already  left  the  praver- closet  and  was  pulling  the 
faded  bell-rope  in  the  library.  A  servant  quickly 
answered. 

"Tell  Captain  Wynnegate  that  I  wish  to  speak  to 
him  here."  Quietly  she  commanded  Henry,  "Leave 
this  to  me." 

At  first  he  was  inclined  to  refuse;  then  touched  by 
her  supreme  devotion,  and  partly  because  he  dreaded 
an  interview  with  Jim,  he  agreed  to  return  to  the 
garden. 

'*  You've  pulled  me  out  of  many  a  scrape,  mother," 
he  said,  as  he  drew  her  close  to  him.  "God — if  you 
gain  time  for  me  in  this" — with  the  words,  hope  be 
gan  to  revive. 

"Go,"  she  only  answered  as  she  pointed  him  to  his 
duty. 

Furtively,  from  behind  the  curtains,  she  watched 
him  join  the  Bishop.  She  dreaded  to  lose  sight  of 
him;  the  awful  vision  was  ever  before  her.  Her  mind 
swung  chaotically  from  her  fear  of  the  previous  night 
to  the  salvation  that  must  be  gained  for  Henry. 
Could  Jim  help  ?  What  if  all  that  remained  of  the 
9  119 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

estate  were  to  be  sold,  and  Jim  were  willing  to  give 
what  he  could — what  if  the  years  that  followed  were 
bereft  of  all  save  honor!  Why  should  she  not  at 
tempt  this  ?  But  even  as  she  reasoned  she  knew  it 
was  useless;  all  save  the  entailed  portions  of  Henry's 
inheritance  were  involved.  She  heard  Jim's  step 
ringing  along  the  corridor. 

"Bates  says  you  want  me,  Aunt." 

As  Jim  stood  before  her,  his  face,  with  the  purple 
shadows  under  his  eyes  and  its  grim  resoluteness,  told 
her  much.  Yes — he  loved  Diana.  Her  keen  eyes, 
that  took  in  every  phase  of  the  boy's  nature  and  every 
expression  of  his  face,  could  easily  see  the  desperate 
marks  which  the  struggle  of  the  night  had  left  upon 
him. 

"  Jim,  Henry  tells  me  that  you  have  quarrelled;  but 
for  the  moment  we  must  forget  all  personal  differences. 
We  are  face  to  face  with  a  crisis  which  affects  us  all; 
you  alone  can  help  us  to  save  the  family  from  dis 
honor." 

"Ah,  so  Henry  has  been  gambling  again,"  Jim 
vaguely  answered.  Did  this  mean  further  anxiety 
for  Diana  ?  He  was  conscious  of  a  curious  light- 
headedness  that  made  all  of  the  day's  work — even 
this  possible  unhappiness  for  his  aunt  and  Diana — 
seem  faint  and  blurred.  The  dead-level  of  his  tone 
made  Lady  Elizabeth  answer,  sharply: 

"Worse — infinitely  worse  than  a  card  debt.  Henry 
has  borrowed  an  enormous  sum  of  money  which  it  is 
absolutely  impossible  for  him  to  repay." 

120 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Borrowed  ?  I  had  no  idea  Henry's  credit  was  so 
good." 

Elizabeth  Kerhill  saw  that  his  mind  was  only  half 
grasping  what  she  was  trying  to  tell  him — that  he 
thought  it  only  another  of  Henry's  peccadilloes.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Henry  used  the  Fund  to  try  to  cover  the  loss  of  his 
last  possession,  which  he  has  sunk  in  a  huge  specula- 


tion." 


Jim  quickly  looked  up. 

"The  Fund— what  Fund  ?    Not  the—" 

"Yes,  the  Relief  Fund." 

"Why,  that's  embezzle—" 

But  his  aunt's  feverish  hand  stopped  the  word. 
She  clung  to  Jim  as  she  piteously  said,  "Henry  in 
tended  to  replace  it." 

"Poor  Diana!  poor  Diana!"  The  words  slipped 
from  him  and  then  as  he  looked  at  the  terrible  eyes 
full  of  this  bitter  knowledge  he  quickly  threw  his  arms 
protectingly  about  his  aunt.  "Poor  Aunt!  poor 
Aunt!" 

"Yes,  we  women  must  bear  our  sins  alone,  and 
you  men  make  us  bear  yours,  too." 

"You  have  had  your  share,  Aunt,"  he  answered,  as 
he  caressed  her  hand.  He  found  it  difficult  to  say 
more;  he  was  so  tired,  yet  he  must  struggle  to  grasp 
what  it  all  meant. 

"It  will  ruin  your  prospects,  too,  Jim,  I'm  afraid. 
It  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  remain  here  after 
this."  She  began  to  understand  why  she  had  sent 

121 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

for  Jim.  Like  him,  her  mental  condition  was  at  its 
lowest  ebb — she,  too,  was  exhausted.  What  were 
Jim's  thoughts  ?  Why  didn't  he  speak  ?  There  had 
been  a  new  resolve  on  his  face  when  he  first  came  in 
response  to  her  summons. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  about  me,"  Jim  roused  him 
self  to  say.  "I  don't  represent  anything.  Besides — " 
he  hesitated.  He  was  leaving  England  —  why  not 
tell  the  truth  ?  The  tragedy  that  the  night  had 
wrought  was  far  more  difficult  for  him  to  face  than 
this  crime  of  Henry's.  Then  into  his  tired  brain 
came  the  knowledge  of  what  all  this  would  mean  to 
the  woman  he  loved.  "But  Diana" — he  continued — • 
"she  is  a  proud  woman;  her  father  is  a  proud  man — 
he  is  in  delicate  health.  It  will  kill  him.  You  took 
from  Diana  her  own  proud  name  to  give  her  ours. 
God — this  scandal  will  ring  from  one  end  of  the  empire 
to  the  other.  Di,  Di—  '  he  could  think  only  of  her 
now.  "  She's  a  city  set  on  a  hill — she'll  be  the  object  of 
pity  and  the  tattle  of  every  back  stair  in  England.  It's 
monstrous — it's  monstrous!"  Suddenly  in  the  midst 
of  his  vehement  despair  for  Diana  he  became  conscious 
that  his  aunt  was  watching  him.  His  entire  cry  had 
been  selfishly  for  Diana.  "Oh,  forgive  me — forgive 
me!"  he  pleaded.  "And  you — what  will  become  of 
you  ?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  could  survive  it." 

Why  was  she  reflecting  Henry,  she  asked  herself. 
Did  she  hope  to  accomplish  with  Jim  what  Henry 
last  night  had  done  with  her  ? 

122 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Hush,  hush!  You  must  not  talk  like  that,"  Jim 
entreated. 

Her  strength  was  beginning  to  fail  her.  Jim  placed 
her  gently  in  a  chair. 

"Jim,  can't  you  help?  Can't  you  think  of  some 
way  to  help  us  all  ?" 

"What  money  I  have  wouldn't  be  a  drop  in  the 
bucket.  But  you  can  have  it."  He  added,  quietly, 
"I'm  leaving  England  —  don't  question  me  why  — 
but  I'm  going." 

Jim  was  going.  He  meant  to  sacrifice  himself  in 
any  case  to  his  great  love.  If  he  had  only  gone  before 
this  discovery  had  been  made — the  unspoken  thought 
that  had  been  struggling  at  the  back  of  her  subccn- 
sciousness  began  to  form  words  that,  if  she  dared, 
would  tempt  him  to  a  greater  sacrifice.  Dare  she 
go  on  ?  Even  as  she  hesitated  Henry  might  be — 
almost  she  prayed  that  last  night's  intervention  had 
been  denied  her. 

Knowing  what  she  did,  she  must  try  to  save  her 
son — save  her  house.  She  drew  a  quick  breath. 
She  rose  and  crossed  to  Jim,  who  was  leaning  against 
the  mantel;  his  figure  drooped  inert  and  helpless,  hers 
grew  stronger  and  more  rigid  until  she  stood  over  him 
like  a  menacing  figure  of  fate.  She  took  both  of  his 
unresisting  hands  in  hers.  There  w7as  no  mistaking 
the  meaning  of  her  words. 

"Jim,"  she  whispered.  "I  know  you  must  go. 
I've  known  it  for  days.  As  it  must  be,  can't  you  think 
of  some  way  to  help — us" — she  hesitated  on  the  word. 

123 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Can't  you  make  a  greater  sacrifice?  You  are  the 
only  one  who  can  save  us  from  ruin  and  dishonor. 
Will  you  ?" 

In  silence  he  looked  into  her  unflinching  eyes. 
From  her  feverish  brain  to  his  strained  sensibilities 
came  the  unmistakable  message.  Was  his  love  great 
enough  to  serve  to  this  end — to  make  this  supreme 
immolation  ?  He  threw  back  his  head  and  closed 
his  eyes.  The  seconds  slipped  by — neither  relaxed 
the  hold  each  had  on  the  other. 

Yes,  to  serve — to  give — that  was  love.  Renuncia 
tion  would  mean  the  salvation  of  so  many — to  Di, 
and  the  life  of  the  delicate  old  man  so  closely  entwined 
with  hers.  The  honor  of  his  house — this  proud  old 
woman!  Through  Henry,  peace  at  least  to  Diana. 
What  mattered  his  life  now — why  not  ?  But  what  he 
did  must  be  done  at  once,  he  could  brook  no  delay. 
Again  he  looked  deep  into  his  aunt's  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  'Til  do  it.  It's  the  only  way— the 
only  way." 

"God  bless  you! — God  bless — "  she  sobbed,  as  she 
clung  to  his  hand. 

But  Jim  evaded  all  further  words.  "Leave  me. 
Later  I'll  see  Henry." 

The  dressing-bell  sounded.  He  led  her  to  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  watched  her  pass  down  the  long  cor 
ridor  with  its  portraits  of  the  dead  Wynnegates  lining 
the  walls.  But  Jim  made  no  effort  to  obey  the  sum 
mons  of  the  bell.  He  returned  to  the  prayer-closet; 
he  wanted  to  be  alone. 

124 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

In  his  dressing-room  Henry  received  two  messages. 
One  was  from  his  mother,  it  said,  "Courage";  the 
other  note  read:  "Come  to  the  prayer-closet  at  ten. — 
Jim." 

At  dinner  Diana  strained  her  eyes  in  vain  down  the 
long  table,  and  then  watched  the  great  doors  for 
Jim's  appearance,  but  to  no  purpose.  Had  he  obeyed 
her  note  ?  By  the  desolation  of  her  heart  she  knew 
that  she  had  not  wished  such  swift  obedience. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  clock  was  striking  ten,  and  Jim  was  waiting 
for  Henry  in  the  prayer-closet.  He  had  arranged 
all  the  details  of  his  departure.  It  was  as  though 
he  carried  a  dead  soul,  so  calm  and  void  had  been  his 
feelings  for  the  past  hours.  He  had  stayed  away 
from  the  dinner-party  on  some  pretext,  and  his  man 
had  already  started  for  London  with  his  luggage  to  be 
left  at  his  club.  When  the  servant  returned  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  as  he  supposed  to  accompany  his 
master  back  to  town,  he  would  find  him  gone.  By 
the  time  the  discovery  of  the  deficit  was  made,  Jim 
would  be  aboard  the  steamer  that  was  to  carry  him 
across  the  Altantic. 

Sounds  from  the  drawing-room  told  him  that  dinner 
was  over.  He  sat  twirling  his  travelling  hat;  on  a 
chair  near  by  lay  his  coat.  The  chimes  of  the  last 
notes  of  the  church-bell  were  dying  away  as  Henry 
hurriedly  entered.  Jim  looked  up  and  studied  his 
cousin's  face,  and  he  saw  by  his  manner  that  some 
word  of  hope  must  have  reached  him  from  Lady 
Elizabeth.  Save  for  a  half -suppressed  exclamation 
from  Henry  as  he  noticed  Jim's  travelling  clothes, 
neither  of  the  men  spoke.  Henry  flung  himself  into 
a  chair;  he  could  feel  Jim's  eyes  on  his  face. 

126 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

44  Damn  it,  why  don't  you  speak  ?"  he  finally  gasped, 
when  he  could  no  longer  endure  the  situation. 

Jim  quietly  asked,  "Have  you  made  your  peace 
with  Diana?" 

"What  would  be  the  use  now?"  He  knew  that 
his  mother  had  told  Jim  the  truth.  Why  did  Jim  not 
refer  to  it?  Perhaps  there  was,  as  his  mother  sug 
gested,  a  way  out  of  this;  if  so,  why  in  Heaven's  name 
should  the  torture  be  continued.  But  Jim  remained 
silent.  "You  think  of  nothing  but  Diana — Diana — 
Diana."  With  the  last  call  of  her  name  it  became  a 
wail.  Henry  had  learned  during  the  past  hours  what 
suffering  could  mean  —  he  was  beginning  to  know 
what  life  tempered  with  discipline  might  have  meant 
for  him.  "When  I  stand  dishonored  before  the 
world,  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  take  her  from  me. 
Is  that  what  you  are  thinking  ?"  He  began  excitedly 
to  pace  the  room. 

"Not  exactly,"  Jim  answered,  without  moving  from 
his  bent  position;  "I  was  wondering  whether  you  can 
be  trusted  with  Diana's  future.  I  believe  you  love 
her  after  a  fashion." 

Henry  stopped  in  his  walk  in  front  of  Jim.  "And 
I  know  that  you  love  her." 

Jim  moved  from  the  position  that  told  how  spent 
he  was,  and  raised  himself  to  his  cousin's  height. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  not  quite  in  the  way  you  mean. 
I  am  about  to  show  you  how  I  love  her." 

Something  in  the  simple  directness  of  his  words 
made  Henry  lower  his  eyes.  He  threw  himself  into 

127 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

a  chair  and  with  averted  head  listened  to  what  his 
cousin  had  to  say. 

"It's  too  late  for  Diana  to  find  out  what  a  black 
guard  you  are,  Henry."  Henry  only  dropped  his 
head  lower  on  his  hands.  "I  wonder  if  you  will  enter 
into  an  honest  conspiracy  to  keep  her  in  happy 
ignorance  to  the  end,"  Jim  continued. 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  Henry  asked.  He  al 
most  knew  the  words  that  were  to  follow,  but  he  hard 
ly  dared  believe  that  what  he  surmised  could  be 
true. 

"I  am  thinking  that  under  certain  conditions  I  will 
disappear — leave  England;  as  secretary  of  the  Fund 
my  action  would  be  practically  a  confession  of  guilt." 

Jim  could  hardly  hear  the  strained  question  that 
followed. 

"Your  conditions?" 

"That  you  give  up  gambling  of  every  kind;  that 
you  drop  your  mistress,  shut  up  her  establishment, 
and  give  up  your  other  liaisons  for  good  and  all;  that 
you  make  a  will  leaving  everything  you  have,  except 
what  is  entailed,  to  Diana;  and  that  you  give  me  a 
written  and  signed  confession  that  you  embezzled  this 
money;  that  for  the  above  considerations  I  consented 
to  assume  the  appearance  and  responsibility  of  the 
guilt,  and  that  if  you  do  not  keep  the  agreement  you 
have  made  with  me,  I  am  at  liberty  to  appear  at  any 
time  and  make  known  the  truth." 

Henry  rose  and  stood  looking  silently  at  Jim. 
Vaguely  he  began  to  grasp  the  tremendous  power 

128 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

of  Jim's  loyal  love.  He  could  find  no  word — the 
clock  chimed  the  quarter-hour. 

"Well?"  Jim  asked. 

"It's  for  her,  Jim — for  her — I  understand  that, 
and  I'll  try  and  have  the  future  make  up  for  the  past, 
so  that  you'll  never  regret  this."  His  voice  broke — 
he  leaned  towards  Jim  and  tried  to  grope  for  the  hands 
that  he  could  not  see — "I  was  a  dog  to  say  what  I  did, 
but,  by  God!  I'll  keep  my  part  of  the  agreement." 

Jim  nodded — he  was  beyond  emotion.  "Good;  it's 
a  bargain.  Go  to  your  room,  make  out  a  paper  such 
as  I  have  indicated,  sign  it  and  bring  it  to  me  here. 
Be  quick,"  he  added,  "and  I'll  get  away  at  once." 

This  time  it  was  Jim  who  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
averted  his  head  to  avoid  seeing  Henry's  out-stretched, 
pleading  hand.  He  never  raised  his  eyes  until  he 
heard  the  door  click,  then  he  went  and  unlocked  a 
side  entrance  that  led  from  the  prayer-closet  to  the 
other  side  of  the  garden,  and  with  his  watch  in  his 
hand  leaned  against  the  open  door  and  waited. 
Henry  must  not  be  too  long;  he  was  to  leave  by  the 
midnight  train,  but  before  that  he  must  make  his 
pilgrimage.  Across  the  garden  he  could  see  the 
waving  tree-tops  beckoning  him,  calling  him  with  the 
mysterious  powers  of  the  night.  Yes,  he  would  make 
his  start  for  the  new  life  from  the  Fairies'  Corner 
that  led — whither? 

Towards  the  carriage-drive  Diana  tenderly  assisted 
Sir  Charles,  followed  by  Bates. 

129 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

"  Must  you  really  go,  father  ?" 

"Yes,  Tiy  dear,  I  must  keep  good  hours,  you  know. 
These  two  days  have  been  a  great  dissipation  for  me; 
but  I've  been  well  repaid;  I  can't  tell  you  how  much 
the  delightful  episode  of  the  loving-cup  pleased  me. 
So  now,  good-night,  my  love."  They  had  reached 
the  entrance,  "No,  no,"  Sir  Charles  protested  as 
Diana  started  to  walk  to  the  carriage  with  him, 
"Bates  will  take  care  of  me."  Then  he  gathered  her 
close  in  his  frail  arms  as  he  kissed  her,  and  whispered, 
full  of  the  pride  he  felt  in  the  honors  done  to  the 
house  of  Kerhill,  "You  see,  it  was  all  for  the  best, 
my  dear — all  for  the  best."  And  Diana  made  no 
answer.  Ever  since  she  had  sent  the  note  to  Jim  re 
vealing  the  truth  of  her  tortured  heart  she  had  seemed 
to  gain  a  spiritual  strength  that  helped  to  calm  the 
aching  call  of  her  senses.  She  dared  ask  no  question 
concerning  Jim's  absence,  and  her  heart  mocked  her 
again  with  the  truth  that  she  had  not  meant  him  to 
obey  her  so  implicitly. 

She  saw  Sir  Charles  drive  away.  "Dear  father," 
she  whispered,  "he  must  never  know — never  know — 
but  it  was  all  for  the  worst,  my  dear,  all  for  the  worst." 
Tears  began  to  stain  her  face;  they  were  the  first  in 
many  days.  She  tried  to  control  the  passion  of  her 
grief  but  it  was  impossible;  quivering  sobs  shook  her 
in  an  hysterical  outburst.  To  escape  from  the  pos 
sible  eyes  of  any  chance  meeting  she  quickly  sought 
refuge  in  the  rose -arbor.  Hidden  completely,  she 
gave  herself  up  to  the  relaxation  of  her  sorrow. 

130 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

finally,  spent  with  her  tears,  she  leaned  against  the 
damp  foliage  of  the  rose-screen,  and  an  aftermath  of 
calm  followed  her  outburst.  Suddenly  she  became 
conscious  that  Sir  John  Applegate  and  Mr.  Chiswick 
were  crossing  to  a  bench  near  the  sundial. 

"My  dear  Chiswick,"  her  cousin  John  was  saying, 
"I'm  greatly  distressed.  I've  been  obliged  to  ask  you 
to  give  me  a  few  moments  here,  and,  indeed,  I've 
asked  Lady  Elizabeth — as  Kerhill  seemed  so  ill  to 
day — to  join  us  here." 

Diana  could  distinctly  hear  every  word,  but  with 
her  tear-stained  face  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  make 
known  her  presence. 

"You  see,  Chiswick,"  Sir  John  continued,  "I 
presume  that  as  Lord  Kerhill's  secretary  you  had  his 
accounts  in  such  shape  that  we  could  go  over  them  at 
a  moment's  notice.  When  the  keys  were  sent  me  this 
evening  I  gave  an  hour  to  glancing  over  the  accounts 
before  meeting  the  auditing  committee  to-morrow; 
as  I've  just  told  you,  they  seemed  in  a  frightful  tangle, 
and—" 

"But,  as  I  explained  a  moment  ago,  Sir  John," 
Chiswick  interrupted,  "I  really  know  nothing  about 
the  Fund;  it  was  a  pleasure  for  the  Earl  to  do  all  the 
work — a  labor  of  love — and  he  took  the  matter  quite 
out  of  my  hands.  Captain  Wynnegate,  as  secretary 
of  the  Fund,  and  Lord  Kerhill  have  had  absolute 
control  of  the  business  side  of  it." 

"What  you  tell  me  amazes  me;  but  no  doubt  there  is 
an  explanation  which  we  will  have  from  Kerhili  later." 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

An  intangible  presentiment  began  to  fasten  its  web 
about  Diana.  Lady  Elizabeth  came  from  the  house; 
both  men  rose,  and  Diana  watched  eagerly. 

"Lady  Elizabeth,  believe  me  I'm  exceedingly  sorry 
to  trouble  you,  but — "  then  Sir  John  Applegate  quite 
brusquely  said:  "I've  had  the  books  for  the  Fund's 
accounts,  and  there  is,  I'm  afraid,  trouble  ahead  for 
our  Yeomanry.  Lord  Kerhill  seems  ill  from  over 
work  with  the  troops,  so  I've  hesitated  to  trouble  him 
to-night." 

Lady  Elizabeth's  brows  contracted;  so  it  had  come 
so  soon.  She  must  act  at  once — why  not  ?  Jim  had 
agreed:  perhaps  he  had  already  gone — everything  was 
at  stake — one  small  misstep  might  prove  fatal — how 
far  dared  she  venture  ? 

"What  you  tell  me  comes  to  me  as  no  great 
surprise,"  she  said.  Both  men  drew  nearer  to  her, 
Diana  strained  to  hear  the  low  words.  "The  cause 
of  Kerhill's  indisposition  this  afternoon  was  due  to 
this  sudden  discovery  on  his  part.  Need  I  say,  as 
Captain  Wynnegate  had  charge  of  the  books,  what  it 
means  to  Henry  ?  He  and  his  cousin  are  alone  re 
sponsible,  so  my  son  feels  that  the  honor  of  our  house 
is  involved.  To-morrow  he  intended  to  lay  the  case 
before  you;  he  will.  I  only  ask  that  to-night  you  will 
keep  the  matter  quiet  until  our  guests  have  departed. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  an  investigation  will  prove  quite 
satisfactory  and  the  shortage  may  be  adjusted."  She 
spoke  more  directly  to  Sir  John;  Chiswick,  after  all, 
could  do  little  harm.  "Indeed,  I  feel  it  is  in  all 

132 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

probability  a  mistake,  the  result  of  overtired  nerves." 
Sir  John  listened,  he  had  a  great  respect  for  Elizabeth, 
Countess  of  Kerhill;  seriously  he  answered: 

"I  feel  anxious,  but  you  may  rely  absolutely  on  me. 
In  the  morning  I  must  see  Henry — will  you  tell  him 
to  meet  me  with  Captain  Wynnegate  ?  The  matter 
must  be  laid  before  the  committee;  there  may  be  a 
leakage  in  some  out-of-the-way  corner  of  another  de 
partment."  Lady  Elizabeth  acquiesced.  Sir  John 
went  on,  "I  could  only  find  confusion  in  the  books; 
consequently,  I  feel  we  need  not  be  too  seriously 
alarmed.  By-the-way,  where  is  Captain  Wynnegate  ?" 
Lady  Elizabeth  shook  her  head.  Into  both  the  men's 
faces  came  a  look  of  curious  surprise. 

"  He  has  not  been  seen  the  entire  day,  save  for  a  little 
while  quite  early,  in  his  tent."  Diana  could  feel  the 
condemnation  in  the  silence  that  followed. 

"Mr.  Chiswick,  Mr.  Chiswick,"  it  was  Mabel's 
voice  calling  from  the  open  casement.  "  You  promised 
to  come  back  for  the  charades." 

"Yes,  you  must  both  return — they  will  need  you. 
And,  after  all,"  Lady  Elizabeth  whispered  as  they 
started  for  the  house,  "we  have  no  doubt  been  an 
ticipating  difficulties  that  do  not  exist." 

The  voices  died  away,  and  Diana  left  the  rose-bower. 
She  had  but  one  thought — she  must  find  Jim  at  once. 
Why,  oh,  why,  had  she  written  the  note  of  the  morning  ? 
She  stumbled  across  the  heavy,  thick  sward.  In  the 
distance  she  could  see  a  figure;  it  looked  like  Jim's; 
he  was  coming  from  the  Fairies'  Corner  over  the  green 

133 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

to  the  entrance  which  in  the  morning  had  let  her  out 
on  to  the  purple  moor.  Quickly  she  hurried  to  him, 
staining  her  gown  and  delicate  slippers  in  the  wet 
grass. 

"Jim,  Jim,"  she  called,  "where  are  you  going?" 
As  he  turned  she  came  close  to  him  and  repeated  her 
question. 

"I'm  taking  your  advice,  Diana;  I'm  leaving 
England—" 

"Oh  no,  no,"  she  eagerly  interrupted,  "I  thought 
so,  but  now  you  must  stay — stay  to  protect  your 
honor.  I've  just  heard  that  the  Fund — oh,  it's  not 
you,  I  know,  Jim,  it's  not  you — not  you — you  couldn't 
be — "  her  despairing  cry  stopped.  Still  he  made  no 
effort  to  comfort  her. 

Finally  he  said — "I  must  go." 

What  did  it  mean  ?  That  he  should  go  after  the 
revelation  she  had  made  to  him — she  understood  that; 
but  now  with  his  honor  at  stake  it  was  different. 
Into  her  mind  there  flashed  an  unanswerable  sus 
picion.  Was  there  some  reason  why  he  had  so  eagerly 
acceded  to  her  request;  that  even  now,  when  she 
asked  him  to  remain,  he  still  stood  mute  at  her  en 
treaties  ? 

"Whether  you  go  or  stay,  Jim,  I  do  not  expect  ever 
to  see  you  alone  again,  and  I'm  glad  of  this  chance  to 
bid  you  good-bye — forever.  I  can  never,  never  be 
lieve  that  you  are —  Jim,  if  your  hands  are  clean,  if 
you  haven't  robbed  the  soldiers'  widows  and  orphans, 
you  may  kiss  me  good-bye." 

134 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

Into  his  eyes  came  the  desire  of  his  love  as  she  had 
seen  it  in  the  early  morning  in  the  Fairies'  Corner. 
This  time  she  did  not  move;  but  Jim  only  bent  low 
over  the  out-stretched  arms  as  he  answered,  "I  must 
go,"  and  went  away  from  her. 

The  circle  of  his  boyhood  was  complete.  Again 
he  went  along  the  same  lane  that  he  had  travelled 
ten  years  before;  again  the  desolation  brought  by  his 
departure  from  his  home,  his  country,  hurt  and 
bruised  his  spirit.  Instead  of  the  dawn,  it  was  mid 
night,  with  clouds  sweeping  sinisterly  over  the  light 
of  the  heavens,  and  instead  of  a  boy's  optimism  he 
carried  a  man's  disillusions. 

From  the  park  the  light  of  the  tent  fires  sent  out 
flames  that  illumined  the  roadway,  the  swaying  and 
rustling  of  the  heavy  trees  made  whispering  sounds. 
Once  at  a  turning  he  heard  a  boy's  voice  in  the  camp 
ringing  out  high  above  the  moaning  of  the  trees: 

"  Oh,  Tommy,  Tommy  Atkins,  you're   a   good  'tin,  'eart 

and  'and, 

You're  a  credit  to  your  country  and  to  all  your  native 
land." 

He  clutched  his  arms  about  his  head  to  deaden  the 
sound  and  hurried  on  out  into  the  roadway,  stumbling 
and  half-falling  over  the  gnarled  roots  of  the  ancient 
trees. 


20 


EXILE 


CHAPTER  XIII 

E£E  a  Tanagra  figurine,  Nat-u-ritch  stood  sil 
houetted  against  the  golden  light  of  the  after 
noon.  She  was  small  and  slender,  and  her  pointed 
face,  in  spite  of  the  high  cheek-bones,  was  delicately 
modelled.  The  eyes  were  long,  but  fuller  than  the 
usual  beady  eyes  of  the  Indian  woman.  They  seem 
ed  far  too  big  in  proportion  to  the  tiny  person  whose 
body  was  swayed  by  the  stifling  breezes  that  swept 
over  the  plains,  raising  a  suffocating  cloud  of  alkali 
dust.  The  heavy,  embroidered,  one-piece  gown  clung 
to  and  slapped  against  the  slight  form,  wrapping  it  in 
lines  of  beauty.  Long,  twisted  ropes  of  blue- black 
hair  hung  dank  and  straight  on  both  sides  of  her 
face  and  reached  to  her  knees. 

As  the  wind  blew  her  gown  one  could  see  the  copper- 
colored  legs,  and  through  the  scant  sleeves  could  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  immature  red-bronze  arms  of  the 
young  girl.  In  her  hair  a  turquoise  strand  repeated 
the  touch  of  blue  that  was  woven  and  interwoven  in 
the  beading  of  her  gown.  She  was  standing  near  the 
trail  that  led  to  Maverick.  To  the  left  and  to  the 
right  the  plains  stretched  into  an  eternity  of  space. 
Nat-u-ritch  shaded  her  eyes  with  straight,  stiffened 

139 


THE  SQUAW   MAN 

fingers,  and  from  under  the  set  hands  gazed  over  the 
country.  Towards  the  west  a  circular  cloud,  repeated 
at  intervals,  told  her  that  horsemen  were  making 
their  way  to  the  cow  town.  From  behind  a  wickyup 
close  to  her  emerged  an  Indian  chief — heavy,  tall, 
with  the  sublime  dignity  of  the  red  man,  unimpaired 
even  by  the  halting,  swaying  walk  that  told  of  his 
surrender  to  the  white  man's  fire-water. 

Quietly  Nat-u-ritch  watched  her  father,  Tabywana, 
mount  his  pinto  pony,  his  flapping  scarlet  chaps  gleam 
ing  against  the  white  body  of  the  animal.  He  looked 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  nor  behind  him,  as  Nat- 
u-ritch  followed  with  her  eyes  his  disappearing  form. 
It  was  twenty-six  miles  into  Maverick,  and  she  knew 
she  must  follow  the  trail  that  led  there,  but  she  made 
no  movement  yet  towards  departure.  Immovable, 
she  stood  and  watched  from  under  rigid  hands  an 
alkali  whirlwind  swallow  up  the  horse  and  his  rider. 

Her  brain  was  busy  with  the  problem  that  lay  before 
her.  For  two  days  Cash  Hawkins,  the  bad  man  of 
the  adjoining  barren  land,  had  been  with  her  father; 
for  two  nights  Tabywana  had  drunk  from  the  bottle 
that  the  white  man  had  brought  to  him.  Not  once 
for  forty-eight  hours  had  her  father  called  her  to  him, 
not  once  had  he  likened  her  to  the  flower  of  the  tree 
of  his  love — the  spirit  -  mother.  She  clinched  her 
long,  narrow  hands  until  they  tore  the  fringes  of  her 
robe.  The  pleading,  dumb  look  of  her  dark  eyes 
gave  way  to  quick  defiance;  they  seemed  to  become 
chasms  of  gloom,  unfathomable  but  determined; 

140 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

they  showed  the  decision  and  strength  of  which  her 
resolve  was  capable. 

Her  father  was  to  sell  that  day  a  large  herd  of  cattle 
to  Cash  Hawkins.  Intuitively  she  knew  what  the  two 
days'  visit  from  Hawkins  would  mean  for  them — • 
despair  when  her  father  realized  the  trick  the  white 
man  had  played  on  him,  scarcity  of  food  and  many 
privations  for  her,  then  long  weeks  of  silent  suffering 
for  both. 

Still  she  stood  staring  into  the  winding,  desolate 
land,  the  stretching  heavens,  the  stretching  plains — 
both  flat,  straight,  unbroken,  like  two  skies.  A  world 
might  be  above  one  or  under  the  other.  Could  this 
intermediate  space  of  ambient  atmosphere  lay  claim 
to  a  life  of  fact  and  reality  ? 

But  no  such  thoughts  came  to  Nat-u-ritch  as  she 
watched  the  sandy  face  of  the  country.  The  desert 
was  her  home.  She  had  toddled  across  its  burning 
ground,  following,  as  far  as  her  baby  strength  would 
permit,  her  father's  pony.  In  the  solitude  of  the  waste 
land  she  had  grown  into  womanhood.  She  knew  that 
to-day's  dreariness  could  be  broken  until  the  entire 
place  echoed  and  re-echoed  to  the  life  of  the  men 
whose  cattle  thundered  at  their  heels.  She  had  heard 
the  desert  answer  to  the  fanatical  outburst  of  her 
tribes;  had  seen  the  white  men  drive  her  people  farther 
and  farther  back.  For  her  and  her  people  it  had  been 
their  refuge. 

Suddenly  she  stretched  out  her  delicate  arms.  Her 
figure  grew  erect.  From  the  distance  came  the  dis- 

141 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

tinct  beat  of  horse's  hoofs;  it  passed  so  close  within 
her  vision  that  she  could  easily  distinguish  the  features 
of  the  rider.  He  was  a  stranger  who  had  recently 
settled  there,  the  stranger  whom  she  had  first  met  at  a 
bear-dance  down  at  the  agency. 

She  remembered  that  with  the  squaw's  privilege  of 
choosing  her  partner  she  had  selected  him.  She 
remembered  his  eyes.  As  she  did  so  her  own  turned 
and  followed  the  man  who.  unlike  the  other  horsemen 
of  the  prairie,  rose  in  his  stirrups,  and  into  her  sphinx- 
like  face  came  a  look  of  unutterable  yearning.  She 
watched  the  clouds  of  dust  envelop  him  as  they  had 
swallowed  up  her  father,  but  this  time  she  no  longer 
stood  staring  into  the  prairie.  Swiftly  she  caught  her 
pony,  mounted  him,  and  let  him  gallop  across  a  trail 
that  led  to  a  short  cut  to  Maverick. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  flat  on  her  animal,  the  hot 
sun  sizzling  down  on  her  clinging  figure.  She  only 
drew  her  hair  as  a  veil  over  her  face,  while  her  wistful 
eyes  wratched  the  stranger  across  the  plains  as  she  sped 
close  on  his  track.  She  was  glad  that  she  was  gaming 
ground,  too  long  had  she  lingered  after  her  father's 
departure.  She  soon  reached  the  short  cut,  and  a 
wise  smile  lighted  up  her  face.  She  would  be  in 
Maverick  ahead  of  the  man  riding  across  the  plains, 
and  she  wondered  whether  she  would  see  him  at  the 
Long  Horn  saloon.  Then  the  smile  died  away;  she 
was  not  going  to  Maverick  for  that  purpose.  First 
she  must  find  and  guard  her  father  from  Cash 
Hawkins's  machinations;  and  then — 

142 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

She  tightened  her  hold  on  her  pony.  She  gave  a 
curious  low  cry  to  the  animal.  His  ears  stood  erect  in 
answer  as  Nat-u-ritch  flashed  across  the  sand  track. 

The  man  on  the  horse  only  vaguely  saw  Nat-u- 
ritch.  His  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  wearying 
business  of  the  day's  shipping  of  cattle.  It  was  Jim's 
second  year  at  his  ranch.  When  he  left  England  he 
did  not  arrest  his  journey  until  he  reached  the  Far 
West  —  that  Mecca  of  all  Englishmen.  With  the 
small  sum  of  money  that  he  had  lifted  from  his  bank, 
he  had  purchased  a  ranch  near  Green  River,  and 
under  the  name  of  Carston  had  begun  forming  the 
ties  that  now  made  up  his  life. 

As  he  rode  his  face  and  body  showed  the  beneficial 
results  of  his  work  in  the  open.  The  cow-boy  clothes 
seemed  to  have  become  almost  part  of  him.  A  certain 
neatness  and  precision  in  his  mode  of  wearing  the 
picturesque  garments  of  the  plains  alone  differentiated 
him  from  the  hundreds  of  wearers  of  flapping  leather 
chaps,  flannel  shirt,  sombrero,  and  loosely  knotted 
kerchief. 

Jim  was  wondering  if  his  men  had  reached  Maver 
ick.  He  had  sent  Big  Bill,  his  foreman,  on  ahead 
of  him  with  a  message  from  him  cautioning  them  to 
beware  of  being  drawn  into  a  quarrel  with  Cash 
Hawkins,  who  he  had  learned  would  be  there.  For 
days  the  "boys'"  anger  had  been  incited  by  the  dis 
covery  made  by  Jim  and  Big  Bill  that  Cash  Hawkins 
had  been  mixing  his  cattle  with  theirs,  for  Hawkins's 

H3 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

gain.  This  complaint  of  "rustling"  he  found  was 
not  uncommon.  Its  penalty  when  proven  was  not  a 
pleasant  one;  the  law  was  not  consulted  —  punish 
ment  was  meted  out  by  the  cow-boys  themselves. 
But  for  the  present  Jim  preferred  to  avert  a  fight 
with  Hawkins.  In  the  future  he  meant  to  take  greater 
precautions  to  protect  his  property. 

As  Jim  rode  he  planned  out  many  details  of  his 
new  life's  work.  Thus  often  for  days  all  other 
thoughts  would  be  blotted  out.  It  was  a  big  game 
to  fight  and  win  in  this  barren  land.  It  absorbed  all 
his  time  and  vitality,  and  memories  of  dew-drenched 
England  were  burned  out  in  this  dry,  brilliant  land 
where  the  tender  half-light  was  unknown  and  where 
often  his  English  eyes  yearned  in  vain,  when  he 
abandoned  himself  to  the  past,  for  a  touch  of  the  soft 
gray  of  his  own  country  in  protest  against  the  hard 
brilliance  of  the  sun  and  unending  sand  plains. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  Overland  Limited  swayed,  creaked,  and  then 
with  a  grunting  of  many  chains  drew  to  a  sudden 
stop  before  the  Long  Horn  saloon  at  Maverick. 
From  the  window  the  passengers  peered  at  the  desolate 
cow  town  and  wondered  how  long  they  were  to  be 
delayed. 

In  their  private  car  at  the  rear  Diana,  Henry  Ker- 
hill,  and  Diana's  cousin,  Sir  John  Applegate,  rose  from 
their  seats  to  study  the  shipping-point  for  cattle,  so 
novel  in  its  environment,  as  indeed  their  entire  journey 
in  America  had  been  for  the  past  months.  The  death 
of  a  distant  relative  on  Diana's  side,  who  had  left  her 
an  unexpected  legacy,  had  enabled  her  to  retrieve 
to  a  great  extent  their  cramped  fortunes. 

Lady  Elizabeth  had  lived  only  a  short  time  to  enjoy 
the  new  improved  condition  of  affairs.  She  died  in 
the  year  following  Jim's  departure  and  vicarious  dis 
grace.  During  the  months  previous  to  her  death  she 
had  grown  grimmer  and  held  herself  more  aloof.  A 
stroke  of  paralysis  one  morning  made  her  bedridden 
and  speechless;  a  merciful  third  stroke  caused  her 
death  within  a  month  after  her  first  attack.  She 
never  spoke,  and  seemed  to  find  no  consolation  save 

145 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

in  Diana's  presence.  The  trip  to  America  for  a 
much-needed  change  was  principally  taken,  however, 
on  account  of  Henry,  whose  nervous  condition  the 
medical  attendants  declared  most  serious.  The  two 
years  had  made  scarcely  a  perceptible  change  in 
Diana;  in  Sir  John  none  at  all.  But  in  Henry  an 
oppressive  melancholy  was  rarely  broken  by  the  old 
flashes.  Towards  Diana  he  had  faithfully  kept  his 
word  to  Jim.  A  truce  was  accepted,  and  he  never 
ceased  in  his  pathetic  endeavors  to  try  to  make  her 
happy.  If  neither  could  honestly  lay  claim  to  a  real 
joy  of  life,  still  they  had  peace  and  dignity.  As  he 
stood  near  the  window,  the  strong  light  showed  how 
much  thinner  and  lined  was  his  face.  A  touch 
of  gray  was  distinctly  visible  along  his  temples 
and  was  beginning  perceptibly  to  streak  his  dark 
hair. 

"My,  but  it's  a  corker!"  Sir  John  gasped,  as  he  put 
his  head  out  of  the  window  and  the  blinding  heat 
beat  down  on  him.  There  was  a  smile  from  Diana 
at  Sir  John's  acquired  Americanism.  More  British 
than  the  Union-Jack  itself,  yet  he  was  keen  to  gain 
knowledge  of  the  new  country,  and  long  conversations 
with  the  servile  black  Sam  were  enlarging  his  vocabu 
lary.  All  three  watched  with  curiosity  the  ram 
shackle  hostelry,  which  they  could  plainly  descry  from 
one  end  of  the  car. 

Diana  turned  to  the  men:  "Do  let  us  see  the  place. 
I've  always  longed  to  have  a  real  adventure  at  a  way- 
place  off  the  beaten  tourist  track.  I'm  so  tired  of  the 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

sights  that  are  arranged  for  one  to  be  shocked  at — at 
so  much  a  head." 

They  moved  to  the  door,  but  the  intense  heat  of  the 
day  for  a  moment  seemed  to  dampen  their  ardor. 
Then,  at  Henry's  solicitations,  Diana  was  persuaded 
to  wait  until  he  found  out  from  an  official  the  pos 
sible  length  of  their  stop. 

Within  the  Long  Horn  saloon  the  afternoon's  heat 
was  apparently  not  felt  by  its  inmates.  It  was  a 
roughly  hewn,  wooden,  three-cornered  room  with  an 
oak  beam  stretching  across  it.  Over  this  were  thrown 
saddles  and  blankets.  A  bar  extended  along  one  side 
of  the  room.  On  the  walls  were  grotesque  and  crude 
pictures  done  in  chalk,  while  other  spaces  were  covered 
with  cheap,  highly  colored  illustrations  cut  from  the 
papers  that  reached  Maverick.  Tables  for  roulette 
and  faro  were  placed  at  set  intervals.  The  floor  was 
covered  with  a  mixture  of  sand  and  sawdust,  while 
mounds  of  wood-dust  were  heaped  near  the  bar,  to  be 
used  by  the  men  as  cuspidors.  It  was  clean  in  a 
certain  primitive  fashion.  The  glasses  and  bar 
fixtures  were  not  unpleasant.  The  bartender,  Nick, 
an  ex-prize-fighter,  took  a  pride  in  his  "emporium," 
as  he  called  the  saloon,  and  lavished  a  loving  though 
crude  care  on  his  possessions. 

But  the  place  was  stained  and  soiled  by  the  marks 
of  the  tragic  remnants  of  humanity  that  were  housed 
within  its  walls.  Around  the  gambling-tables  on  this 
afternoon  were  groups  of  tattered  specimens  of  the 
various  races.  Cow-boys  at  certain  tables  gave  a 

H7 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

wholesome,  virile  note  to  the  place,  but  the  drift-wood 
of  a  broken  civilization  was  at  this  hour  in  larger  pro 
portion  than  the  ranchmen.  Among  the  battered 
denizens  from  the  world  beyond  that  had  strayed 
into  the  saloon  life  was  a  parson  in  a  frayed  frock- 
coat,  who  leaned  in  a  neighborly  way  against  the  blue 
shirt  of  a  Chinaman,  while  a  large  negro  with  a  face 
like  a  black  Botticelli  angel  grinned  and  gleamed  his 
white  teeth  in  sport  with  a  dago  from  Monterey. 
In  a  chair  in  a  farther  corner  a  tenderfoot  lay  in  a 
drunken  sleep  in  his  soiled  evening  clothes,  which  he 
had  donned  three  nights  before  to  prove  to  the  tor 
menting  habitues  of  the  place,  who  since  then  had  not 
allowed  him  to  grow  sober,  that  he  was  a  gentleman. 

A  half-breed  at  a  faro-table  watched  with  tolerant 
amusement  the  antics  of  those  in  his  game  to  outwit 
him.  The  smell  of  the  sawdust  and  the  human  mass 
of  unpleasantness  grew  stronger  as  the  men  played, 
changed  money,  and  Nick's  corks  flew  and  glasses 
clinked.  Over  the  entire  place  there  hung  a  curious 
sense  of  respectability.  Low-muttered  oaths  were  not 
uncommon,  but  Nick,  sturdy  and  grim,  with  his  watch 
dogs — two  large  six-shooters — lying  on  the  shelf  be 
hind  the  bar,  had  a  certain  straightness  of  purpose 
and  a  crude  sense  of  right  and  wrong  that  won  re 
spect  from  the  heterogeneous  mass  of  his  followers. 

The  passing  of  the  Limited  would  have  caused  a 
sufficient  amount  of  interest,  but  its  stopping  was  a 
momentous  occasion.  The  rude  platform  outside 
was  only  a  shipping-point  for  cattle,  not  a  stopping- 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

place  for  through  or  passenger  trains.  There  was  a 
rush  of  some  of  the  inmates  from  the  room,  but  to  a 
number  of  them  the  game  was  at  its  vital  point,  and 
Pete's  lazy  call  of  "jacks  up"  quickly  chained  the 
attention  of  the  more  eager  of  the  players. 

But  to  Nick  it  meant  new  trade,  and  his  battered 
and  scarred  face  grew  into  one  ebullient  smile  as 
McSorley,  the  engineer,  in  his  jumpers,  with  be 
grimed  face  and  hands,  and  Dan,  the  dapper  Pullman 
conductor  of  the  Overland  Limited,  entered  the  saloon. 
McSorley  was  mopping  his  sweating  face. 

"Say,  Dan, who's  the  English  swells  in  the  private  ?" 
he  asked,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  luxuriously  fitted 
car. 

"The  Earl  of  Kerhill,"  Dan  answered,  as  they  veered 
towards  the  bar.  "Been  out  to  the  Yellowstone. 
The  old  man  lets  'em  have  his  private  car.  Must  be 
the  real  thing,  eh  ?" 

McSorley  grunted  his  approval  of  the  noble  freight 
that  he  was  carrying.  "Let's  have  a  drink.  What's 
yours,  Dan  r" 

They  reached  the  solicitous  Nick. 

"What  '11  you  have,  gents  ?" 

"A  bottle  of  beer  for  me,  Mac,"  Dan  answered  his 
companion's  question.  Then,  with  English  tips  still 
a  pleasant  memory,  he  added,  "But  this  is  on  me." 

Nick  began  opening  a  bottle  of  beer,  and  its  foaming 
contents  were  soon  filling  the  glasses.  As  he  served 
he  inquired:  "What's  up  gents?  'Tain't  often  the 
Overland  Limited  honors  Maverick  with  a  call!" 

I4Q 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Washout  down  the  road,"  was  McSorley's  laconic 
reply,  as  the  cool  liquid  slid  down  his  parched  throat. 

"  Staying  long  ?"  Nick  again  asked,  with  visions  of 
many  strangers  visiting  his  bar. 

Dan  was  surveying  the  place  with  an  unsympathetic 
eye. 

"Not  longer  than  we  can  help,  you  bet,"  he  an 
swered.  "Expecting  orders  to  move  every  minute/' 

But  Nick  was  determined  to  be  affable.  "Pity; 
Maverick's  worth  seein'.  Who's  in  the  parlor-car  ?" 

"English  people — Earl  of  Kerhill  and  party,"  Dan 
replied.  Then  he  moved  down  the  bar  with  McSorley, 
both  carrying  their  half-consumed  beer. 

A  Southern  cow-puncher,  Pete,  who  had  gone 
from  ranch  to  ranch,  finding  life  too  hard  at  each, 
leaned  back  on  his  stool  until  he  rested  against  one 
end  of  the  bar.  Through  the  windows  he  could  see 
Shorty,  one  of  Jim  Carston's  men,  coming  along  in 
animated  conversation  with  several  other  men  of  the 
Englishman's  ranch. 

"In  my  opinion  the  calm  serenity  of  this  here  me 
tropolis  is  about  to  be  tore  wide  open."  A  nudge 
from  Punk,  the  Chinaman,  made  him  go  on  with  the 
shuffling. 

"How  many,  Parson?"  Pete  queried. 

The  cadaverous  face  of  the  Parson,  with  its  highly 
colored  nose,  showing  the  cause  of  his  cloth's  disgrace, 
turned  to  him.  Frayed  and  seedy  as  he  was,  he  bore 
the  imprint  of  a  gentleman. 

"Dearly  beloved  brethren,  three." 

150 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Again  Punk  nudged  the  others,  who  were  inclined 
to  become  too  talkative.  They  began  indicating  the 
number  of  cards  desired  with  their  fingers  while  the 
conversation  continued.  Nick  leaned  over  the  bar 
and  watched  Pete's  hand. 

"Cash  Hawkins  is  in  town!"  Pete  gave  the  news 
as  though  it  were  of  moment.  They  all  knew  what 
Cash's  visits  usually  meant.  An  ominous  whistle 
followed.  They  all  looked  at  Nick. 

"Bad  medicine  is  this  same  Mr.  Hawkins,  par 
ticular  when  he  has  his  gun  wid  him.  Bedad,  the 
kummunity  could  spare  him  a  whole  lot  without  miss 
ing  him,"  Nick  volunteered. 

"If  they  provoke  unto  wrath  Brother  Carston's 
outfit,  my  Christian  friend,  there  will  be  some  useful 
citizens  removed  from  our  midst."  The  Parson 
approved  of  Jim  as  a  remnant  of  his  earlier  days.  He 
recognized  in  him  one  of  his  own  class. 

"And  who  the  devil  is  Jim  Carston  ?"  Nick  asked. 

"Jim  Carston?  Never  seen  Jim?  Oh  yes,  you 
must  have,  although  Jim  don't  frequent  emporiums 
much.  Why  Jim's  the  English  cow-boy.  First  he 
had  a  place  about  a  hundred  miles  from  here.  But 
he's  bought  Bull  Cowan's  herd.  Bull  stuck  him — - 
stuck  him  good,"  Pete  lazily  informed  the  crowd. 

"Sure!"  said  Nick.  "That's  why  Englishmen  was 
invented.  More  power  to  'em." 

"Amen,"   hiccoughed    the    Parson,   whose    drinks 
by  this  time  had  been  numerous.     "The  prosperity 
of  our  beloved  country  would  go  plumb  to  Gehenna  if 
is  151 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

an  all-wise  Providence  did  not  enable  us  to  sell  an 
Englishman  a  mine  or  a  ranch  or  two  now  and  again." 

"Say,"  Nick  asked,  seriously,  "the  Englishman 
ain't  a-goin'  up  agin  Cash,  is  he  now?" 

"I  call  you,  Parson,"  Pete  calmly  commanded,  and 
then  raked  in  the  pot.  "When  the  smoke  has  cleared 
awav  I  will  venture  an  opinion  as  to  who  has  gone 
agin  who,"  he  resumed,  as  he  pocketed  the  money. 
"Jim  and  his  outfit  is  here  to  ship  some  cattle  to 
Chicago.  I  seed  them  all  through  the  window,  and 
they  ain't  the  kind  to  run  away  much." 

There  was  a  finality  about  Pete's  words.  He  might 
be  lazy  and  slow,  but  he  was  anxious  to  open  another 
pot,  so  he  turned  his  back  on  Nick  and  began 
shuffling  the  cards.  As  he  did  so,  three  of  Jim's 
boys — Andy,  Shorty,  and  Grouchy — entered. 

"Come  on  boys  and  have  a  drink,"  Shorty  yelled. 

Andy  was  a  wiry,  slender  German  with  tender, 
romantic  proclivities.  Grouchy,  who  seldom  spoke, 
and  then  only  in  a  husky,  low  growl,  was  a  massive 
fellow  and  looked  like  a  Samoan  native,  but  was  in 
reality  a  product  of  a  Hebrew  father  and  an  Irish 
mother,  while  Shorty  gained  his  name  from  his  low 
stature.  Brave  as  a  lion  and  honest,  with  a  face 
from  which  twinkled  the  smallest  and  merriest  of  blue 
eyes,  he  was  the  live  wire  of  any  ranch. 

"What's  your  nose-paint,  gents  ?"  Nick  asked,  as  he 
greeted  the  new-comers. 

"A  little  of  that  redeye,"  Shorty  replied,  and  soon 
he  and  his  comrades  were  clinking  glasses.  Several 

152 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

cow-punchers  joined  them,  and  the  place  began  to 
resound  to  lively  disputes  concerning  the  rates  on 
cattle. 

Dan  and  McSorley  had  finished  their  beer. 

"  How  much  ?"  Dan  said.  His  look  plainly  showed 
his  contempt  for  the  saloon.  It  was  Nick's  oppor 
tunity  to  pay  back  the  insult  that  had  been  quietly 
levelled  at  him  by  the  Pullman  conductor's  attitude 
for  the  past  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"One  dollar,"  was  Nick's  quick  reply. 

"One  dollar!"  Dan  repeated.  "For  two  glasses 
of  beer  ?"  He  stepped  back  and  his  voice  rose  in 
angry  protest.  It  attracted  the  attention  of  the  others, 
who  were  only  too  eager  for  a  row. 

"Why,"  Dan  continued,  "it  was  all  collar,  anyway." 

Nick  leaned  over  the  bar  and  quietly  said,  "I  didn't 
charge  nothin'  for  the  collar,  gent,  I  throwed  that  in." 
There  was  a  laugh  from  the  hangers-on  at  Nick's 
witticism.  Nick  flushed  with  approval  and  went  on, 
"  Beer's  our  most  expensive  drink — comes  all  the  way 
from  Cheyenne." 

Dan,  furious  at  being  done,  as  he  knew  he  was, 
struck  the  bar  with  his  fist.  "I  won't  pay  it,"  he 
said. 

There  was  a  hush  about  the  room.  They  didn't 
often  see  any  one  venture  to  buck  against  Nick's 
authority. 

"Oh  yes,  you'll  pay  it,  gent."  Nick's  voice  was 
lower  and  calmer  than  Dan's.  He  had  turned  while 
Dan  was  speaking  and  was  lovingly  fingering  his  six- 

153 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

shooter.  He  lifted  it  from  the  shelf  and  laid  it  care 
fully  on  the  bar,  keeping  his  hand  well  over  the  trigger. 

McSorley  nervously  edged  to  Dan.  "Better  pay 
it;  better  pay  it,"  he  whispered. 

Nick  heard  him.  "Yes,"  he  added,  "better  pay 
it.  Saves  funeral  expenses." 

Dan  knew  enough  of  the  country  to  know  he  was 
at  Nick's  mercy.  He  drew  a  silver  dollar  from  his 
pocket,  and  slapped  it  down  on  the  bar. 

"Well,  I'll  be-  -!"  Dan  started  for  the  door,  fol 
lowed  by  McSorley,  who  thought  his  companion's  rage 
ill-timed.  He  wished  he  were  back  in  his  caboose. 
As  they  reached  the  door  Nick's  voice  rang  out  in 
stentorian  tones. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  There  was  no  gainsaying  his 
command.  Dan  halted.  Nick,  leaning  far  over  the 
bar,  held  in  each  hand  a  watch-dog.  "I  don't  allow 
no  tenderfoot  to  use  bad  language  in  my  emporium. 
We  do  strictly  family  trade  and  caters  particular  to 
ladies  and  children." 

Dan  and  McSorley  stood  under  the  levelled  guns. 
A  shriek  of  mirth  shook  the  crowd.  All  had  stopped 
playing  and  were  watching  the  situation.  Finally, 
when  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  ridiculous  position 
of  the  train  officials  and  the  laugh  had  subsided,  Nick 
dropped  the  guns,  and  with  a  low  bow  turned  from 
the  bar,  leaving  them  free  to  go.  Dan  and  McSorley 
quickly  disappeared,  Dan  wildly  expostulating  while 
McSorley  vainly  tried  to  calm  him. 

Nick  went  back  to  the  players. 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Pete,"  he  asked,  "what  has  Cash  got  agin  the 
Englishman  ?" 

Pete,  nothing  loath  to  tell  his  yarn,  especially  as  he 
had  been  winning  all  the  afternoon,  drawled  the  in 
formation  so  that  all  at  his  table  could  hear. 

"Well,  Jim's  outfit  has  been  heard  to  openly  ex 
press  the  opinion  that  Cash  can't  tell  the  difference 
between  his  cattle  and  Jim's." 

"Rustling,  eh  r"  the  Parson  interrupted. 

Pete  nodded. 

"Serious  business." 

"Yes,"  said  Pete.  "Serious — quite — in  these  here 
parts.  I  see  the  Englishman  stand  off  a  greaser  down 
at  the  agency,  and  I've  got  a  wad  of  the  long-green  to 
lay  even  money  that  Cash  can't  twist  the  British  lion's 
tail  a  whole  lot — not  a  whole  lot.  Any  takers  r" 

Pete's  eye  was  always  keen  to  take  up  a  "sure 
thing."  The  men  with  him  fell  into  a  dispute  con 
cerning  the  respective  merits  of  Jim  versus  Cash 
Hawkins. 

Meanwhile,  seated  at  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  were  Shorty,  Andy,  and  Grouchy.  They  had 
heard  nothing  of  Pete's  and  the  Parson's  conversation. 
They  were  intent  on  a  mild  game  and  were  awaiting 
Big  Bill,  who  was  to  meet  them  at  the  saloon.  None 
of  them  saw  Big  Bill  coming  towards  them  until  they 
heard  the  slow,  deep  voice  saying:  "Boys,  Cash  Haw 
kins  is  in  town.  The  boss  asks  as  a  special  favor  to 
him  that  you  will  avoid  Cash  and  his  gang  and  try 
to  get  out  of  town  without  a  collision." 

155 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Bill  was  a  giant,  over  six  feet  tall,  with  a  great,  leo 
nine  head.  He  had  a  strong  face  with  piercing  eyes. 
The  mouth,  "a  large  gash,"  as  Shorty  described  it, 
could  at  times  give  vent  to  loud  guffaws  of  laughter, 
and  at  others  frighten  one  as  it  straightened  into  two 
lines  of  grim  determination.  For  two  years  he  had 
been  Jim's  right-hand  man,  and  his  devotion  to  the 
boss  was  the  most  beautiful  side  of  Bill's  life.  Forty 
years  ago  he  had  been  born  in  a  prairie  saloon;  the 
woman  who  bore  him  died  the  night  of  his  birth.  He 
never  knew  who  his  father  was,  and  the  upbringing 
he  received  was  from  a  handful  of  miners  who  had 
adopted  him.  As  soon  as  he  could  toddle  he  began 
to  try  to  do  for  himself.  Little  errands  he  volun 
teered,  and  long  before  most  boys  even  on  a  ranch 
were  anything  but  a  nuisance,  Bill  was  contributing 
gravely  his  share  to  the  big  game  of  life.  Save  once, 
to  Jim,  he  never  spoke  of  the  past.  He  had  drifted 
to  Maverick  twenty  years  ago,  and  except  at  intervals, 
when  he  took  a  notion  to  better  himself,  he  was  usu 
ally  at  the  cow  town. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  when  he  was  trailing  the 
country  he  met  Jim,  who  was  looking  for  a  man  to 
direct  the  practical  side  of  his  affairs.  Bill  had  never 
met  a  gentleman  who  treated  him  as  Jim  did,  and  in 
return  he  gave  his  body's  strength  and  all  the  schem 
ing  devotion  of  his  brain  in  his  endeavor  to  benefit 
Jim's  complicated  affairs. 

The  three  men  looked  up  at  Bill,  who  slid  into  a 
chair  at  their  table  and  started  a  new  game  with  them. 

156 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Say,  Bill,"  Shorty  began,  "if  Cash  has  his  war 
paint  on  there  ain't  no  use  distributin'  tracts  on  love 
one  another." 

"Und,  Bill,"  Andy  added,  "und  say  for  peace- 
dot's  me,  Andy.  But  say,  Bill,  rustlin' — cattle  steal 
ing — you  know.  Particular  when  it's  our  cattle, 
Cash  has  got  a  lot  wit'  a  circle -star  brand  which 
original  is  a  big  C  for  Carston.  Say,"  he  wildly  went 
on,  becoming  more  incoherent  as  his  temper  rose, 
"und  if  we  stand  for  it — you  know — und  say — we 
got  to  git  out  of  de  business." 

Grouchy  leaned  over  to  Bill  and  shook  his  head. 
"Say,  I  wouldn't  work  for  a  man  that  would  stand 
for  it." 

Still  Bill  said  nothing,  but  listened  gravely  to  the 
storm  of  protests  that  the  message  from  Jim  to  the 
boys  had  provoked. 

"If  the  peace  of  a  kummunity  is  worth  a  damn, 
you  got  to  shoot  him  up  a  whole  lot.  It's  this  delicate 
consideration  for  the  finer  feelings  of  bad  men  which 
encourages  'em."  Shorty,  in  his  nervous,  jerky  man 
ner,  fairly  shook  the  table  with  his  vibrations  of 
rebellion. 

Then  Bill  spoke.  He  was  in  sympathy  with  the 
boys,  but  he  had  his  orders  from  the  boss — that  was 
enough  for  him. 

"Well,  you  know  Jim.  It  ain't  likely  he'd  ask 
you  to  show  the  white  -  feather  nor  to  stand  no 
nonsense.  Only" — here  Bill  paused  and  said, 
impressively,  "  don't  drink  mor'n  you  can  help,  and 

157 


THE    SQUAW    MAN 

avoid  trouble  if  possible.  Them's  the  boss's  or 
ders." 

As  Bill  was  laying  down  the  law  for  the  men,  the 
saloon  began  to  fill  with  curiosity-seekers  from  the 
train.  The  delay  was  evidently  to  be  longer  than  had 
at  first  been  anticipated.  Shorty  was  the  first  to  see 
the  humor  of  some  of  the  new-comers. 

"Gee,  get  on  to  the  effete  East.  Say,"  he  called  to 
the  rest  of  them,  "get  on  to  the  tenderfeet." 

They  looked  with  childish  glee  at  a  quaint-looking 
couple  who  were  entering  the  saloon.  Mrs.  Doolittle 
was  a  prim,  mild-mannered  little  woman  with  a  saint 
ly  smile.  She  evidently  was  travelling  in  the  West 
for  the  first  time.  Her  husband,  Hiram,  v.ras  one  of 
the  prosperous  New  England  farmer  class.  Pleased 
with  the  entire  condition  of  affairs,  he  beamed  on  the 
cow-boys  with  great  condescension. 

Shorty,  who  scented  some  fun,  whispered  to  Bill: 
"D.  C.  brand.  Day  Coach,  savvy  ?"  As  he  watched 
the  odd  pair  he  made  his  way  towards  them.  They 
were  quietly  studying  the  place.  The  pictures  of 
prize-fighters  and  ballet -girls  that  lined  the  walls 
really  shocked  them,  but  it  also  tickled  their  sense  of 
the  wickedness  of  their  adventure.  They  reached  a 
roulette-table  with  the  game  in  progress. 

"Why,  Hiram!"  Mrs.  Doolittle  ejaculated,  as  she 
watched  the  players  and  surveyed  the  saloon,  "this 
is  a  gambling-hell." 

Shorty,  who  with  the  others  was  closely  watch 
ing  the  strange  adventurers  and  planning  to  tease 

158 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

them,  mocked  them  in  an  aside — "Well,  I  want  to 
know." 

But  Hiram  was  too  intent  on  Faith's  observations  to 
notice  that  they  were  becoming  the  centre  of  interest 
in  the  place. 

"Durned  if  it  ain't,"  he  affirmed,  in  a  pleased  tone. 
Then,  ashamed  of  his  laxity,  he  added,  "Want  to  git 


out  ?' 


"Why,  Hiram,  what  a  question!"  Faith  Doolittle 
answered,  severely,  as  she  drew  away  from  her  hus 
band's  out-stretched  hand.  "Tain't  often  one  gets 
a  chance  to  see  life.  I've  read  about  Montey  Carlo, 
and  here  it  is." 

The  boys  were  now  all  attention.  Andy  whispered, 
"Three  card,  eh;  Montey  Carlo  here,  eh!"  The 
laugh  began  to  be  noticed  by  Hiram. 

"Dear  me,"  Faith  Doolittle  gravely  remarked, 
"and  over  there  is  rouletty,  I  suppose." 

Shorty  came  forward.  He  took  off  his  large  som 
brero  and  bowed  low  to  the  ground,  in  mock  cavalier 
fashion  as  he  good-humoredly  said,  "No  lady,  that's 
where  they're  voting  for  the  most  popular  lady  in  the 
Sabbath -school."  His  sally  was  greeted  with  ap 
plause.  Faith  hardly  noticed  it;  she  had  taken 
Hiram  by  the  arm  and  was  trying  to  drag  him  to  the 
table. 

Pete  called  to  them,  "That's  not  rouletty,  that's 
faro,  lady." 

The    parson    added,    "So    called    after   Pharaoh's 


daughter.' 

o 


159 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Who  found  a  little  prophet  in  the  rushes  on  the 
bank,"  Shorty  further  explained. 

But  Faith  was  eagerly  whispering  to  Hiram,  "You 
know,  Hiram,  frequently  people  by  just  putting  down 
fifty  cents,  or  a  dollar,  walk  out  with  millions."  Then 
timidly  she  added,  "I'd  like  to  try  it  once." 

"Faith  Doolittle!"  was  all  Hiram  could  exclaim, 
so  great  was  his  surprise  at  his  wife's  request.  Truly, 
he  thought,  women  were  strange  cattle.  To  think  of 
Faith,  so  quiet,  so  serene  all  these  years,  and  then— 
to  see  her  now  with  flushed  cheeks,  hat  awry,  and  an 
eager,  feverish  look  in  her  mild  eyes  as  she  tried  to 
draw  him  to  the  table. 

"Oh,"  she  pleaded,  "only  fifty  cents'  worth,  Hiram. 
There  couldn't  be  any  harm  in  fifty  cents'  worth." 

Behind  his  great  hand  Shorty  convulsed  the  others 
by  observing,  "Mother's  a  sport,  but  father's  near." 

Hiram  now  realized  that  he  must  be  firm  and  leave 
this  place  that  was  affecting  so  strangely  his  wife's 
conduct. 

"  You  couldn't  keep  money  got  in  that  nefarious  way, 
even  if  you  won  it,"  he  explained;  "you're  a  church- 


woman." 


"We  could  give  some  of  it  to  the  church,"  quickly 
reasoned  Faith;  "and,  Hiram,  we  could  do  such  a  lot 
of  good  with  a  million.  Just  try  fifty  cents'  worth. " 
She  made  a  further  attempt  to  reach  the  table. 

"Come  out  of  here,  Faith  Doolittle,"  stormed 
Hiram,  as  he  saw  his  protests  were  of  no  avail,  "or 
you'll  have  me  going  it  in  a  minute."  He,  too,  began 

160 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

to  feel  the  tempting  influence  of  the  green  cloth,  the 
glittering  money-heaps,  and  the  feverish  gayety  of  the 
ribald  crowd. 

As  Hiram  started  to  lead  Faith  to  the  door  they 
were  stopped  by  Shorty. 

"Nick,"  he  called  to  the  bartender,  "my  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hill— Bunkco  Hill— of  Boston."  The 
slang  name  for  the  innocence  of  the  couple  caught  the 
crowd's  fancy.  They  quickly  formed  a  circle  around 
them. 

"Pleased  to  know  you,"  Nick  observed  from  the 
bar.  "What's  your  drink  ?"  He  began  filling  glasses 
with  whiskey. 

This  time  Hiram's  indignation  was  effectual.  Grasp 
ing  his  now-frightened  spouse  by  the  arm,  he  fiercely 
drew  her  away,  the  cow-boys  laughingly  letting  them 
go,  with  polite  bows,  and  bits  of  advice  called  good- 
naturedly  after  them. 

It  was  the  sport  of  children,  as  indeed  these  men 
were  to  a  great  extent — crude,  rough,  but  with  a  sweet 
ness  not  to  be  denied  and  a  decency  that  it  might  seem 
strange  to  find  in  such  a  place.  So  far  their  fun  might 
go,  but  they  knew  where  to  stop,  and  Faith  Doolittle's 
gentle  face  was  its  own  protection.  They  watched 
Hiram  nervously  leading  his  wife  along  the  platform 
down  the  line.  Then  they  turned  back  to  the  saloon 
and  amused  themselves  by  giving  imitations  of  the 
quaint  visitors,  until  the  place  rang  with  their  bois 
terous  merriment. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  rattle  of  spurs  and  a  noise 

161 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

from  without  as  a  tall  cow-puncher  lurched  through 
the  door. 

In  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Every  one  knew 
the  man. 

"Hello,  here's  Cash  now,"  observed  Shorty. 

The  innocent  gayety  was  forgotten.  A  different 
expression  began  to  appear  on  the  men's  faces.  In 
Jim's  crowd  it  was  one  of  sullen  rebellion  and  sup 
pressed  indignation,  in  the  other  an  expectant  desire 
for  real  mischief.  With  Cash  Hawkins's  entrance 
that  afternoon,  history  was  made  in  Maverick. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CASH  HAWKINS  leaned  against  the  bar  and 
maliciously  took  in  the  silence  that  followed  his 
entrance  into  the  saloon.  He  knew  he  was  feared; 
he  had  made  more  than  one  man  there  feel  his  power. 
Malignity  was  marked  in  his  demeanor  and  in  the 
physiognomy  of  his  face.  He  was  lithe  and  straight, 
with  wiry,  steel-like  muscles.  He  had  a  small  head 
with  a  shock  of  tawny  hair  that  he  wore  much  longer 
than  is  usual  with  ranchmen.  The  rawhide  strap  of 
his  hat  hung  under  his  chin,  and  his  face,  with  its  long, 
pointed  wolf  jaw,  suggested  that  animal  in  its  ex 
pression  of  ferocious  keenness.  When  he  grew  ex 
cited  his  mouth  moved  convulsively,  like  an  ugly  trap 
ready  to  devour  its  prey.  His  hands  were  curiously 
beautiful — long  and  slender,  with  almond  -  shaped 
nails.  The  care  he  bestowed  on  them  to  keep  their 
beauty  in  the  midst  of  his  rough  life,  the  gorgeousness 
of  his  leather  chaps  with  their  mounting  of  silver,  and 
the  embroidery  on  his  waistcoat  betrayed  his  salient 
weakness — inordinate  vanity.  He  was  handsome  in 
a  cruel,  hard  fashion.  Of  his  power  as  an  athlete 
there  was  no  question.  In  the  saloon  many  could 
testify  to  the  devilish  cunning  of  those  supple  hands. 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Got  a  bottle  of  ink  handy,  Nick  ?"  he  said,  when 
he  had  insolently  surveyed  the  assemblage,  who,  after 
a  pause,  were  beginning  to  talk  and  settle  down  to  new 
games. 

Nick,  who  wished  to  be  friendly  with  all  who 
patronized  him,  answered: 

"Ink  ?     Ink  is  a  powerful  depressing  drink,  Cash." 

"Drink!"  Cash's  face  grew  livid  with  rage-  "You 
see  here,  Nick,  don't  you  joke  with  me;  I  ain't  in  the 
humor  for  it.  People  has  to  know  me  intimate  to 
joke  with  me — savvy  ?  You  get  me  a  pen  and  a 
bottle  of  ink  P.D.Q.  I'm  buying  some  cattle  of 
Tabywana,  the  Ute  chief — savvy  ?  And  he's  got  to 
put  his  mark  to  the  contract." 

With  swaggering  gestures  Cash  announced  his 
business  so  that  all  could  hear  him.  Bill  whispered 
to  the  boys,  who,  going  on  with  their  game,  were  still 
listening  and  watching  Cash  intently: 

"You  know  what  that  skunk's  up  to  now.  He's 
got  Tabywana  drunk — been  at  it  for  days — in  order 
to  swindle  him  out  of  his  cattle." 

Shorty,  with  all  of  the  cow-boy's  intolerance  of  the 
red  man's  rights,  snapped,  "Well,  it  don't  make  much 
difference  about  Injins." 

"No,"  growled  Grouchy,  "guv'ment  supports  'em 
anyway." 

Nick  had  unearthed  a  bottle  of  ink. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  across  the  bar, 
"that  was  ink  once,  Cash.  'Ain't  had  no  use  for  it 
sense  my  gal  throwed  me.  Gits  more  people  into 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

trouble.     Often  wisht  I  was  illiterate."     Nick's  dry 
humor  betrayed  his  descent  from  the  Emerald  Isle. 

Cash  paid  no  attention  to  Nick's  attempts  at  con 
versation.  He  was  filling  his  glass  and  surveying  the 
crowds  at  the  various  tables.  It  annoyed  him  that 
no  one  had  greeted  him  with  any  particular  show  of 
enthusiasm.  Save  for  a  "How  d'ye,"  or  a  nod  from 
some  of  the  hangers-on,  no  one  had  particularly 
noticed  him.  He  stood  against  the  bar,  and  without 
turning  his  body  directed  his  words  towards  Big 
Bill  and  Jim's  men  at  a  table  near  him.  With  a 
truculent  swagger  he  blew  his  cigarette  smoke  through 
his  nostrils. 

"  There's  just  one  thing  I  can't  stand  for,"  he  be 
gan,  "and  that's  an  Englishman."  There  was  a 
movement  from  Jim's  men,  but  it  was  quickly  con 
trolled.  Cash  went  on:  "He's  a  blot  on  any  land 
scape,  and  wherever  I  see  him  I  shall  wipe  him  off  the 
map.  He  is  distinctly  no  good.  We  whipped  'em 
once,  and  we  kin  do  it  again.  They  'ain't  never 
whipped  nuthin'  but  niggers  and  savages.  The 
Englishman  is  a  coward  and  any  American  who 
works  for  him  is  a  cur." 

With  one  movement  Andy,  Shorty,  and  Grouchy 
rose  and  their  hands  went  to  their  guns,  but  almost 
,  before  they  had  clutched  them  Bill  was  towering 
over  them.  With  one  hand  he  pushed  Grouchy, 
and  with  the  other  gripped  the  shoulders  of  Shorty 
and  Andy,  until  he  forced  them  down  into  their 
chairs. 

,65 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  was  all  he  said,  and  the  men 
sullenly  subsided  under  their  foreman's  orders. 

Bill  stood  looking  at  Cash.  He  wanted  to  gain 
time  and  not  take  any  notice  of  insults  from  him  until 
it  was  so  directly  levelled  that  they  could  no  longer 
endure  it.  He  wished  Jim  would  come;  it  was  time 
for  him.  He  wanted  to  finish  some  details  of  the 
shipping  and  then  get  their  men  to  leave  Maverick. 

Cash  saw  Bill's  command  of  the  men;  he  ground 
his  jaw  with  ugly  grating  sounds  from  his  big  white 
teeth.  Looking  directly  at  Bill,  he  said,  "There  is  a 
certain  outfit  been  a  circilatin'  reports  derogitory  to 
my  standin'  in  this  here  kummunity,  and  before  the 
day  is  over  I  will  round  up  said  outfit  and  put  my 
brand  on  'em."  As  he  spoke  he  touched  his  gun. 

"Same  as  you  been  a-puttin'  it  on  their  cattle?" 
Bill  remarked,  coldly. 

This  was  what  Cash  wanted;  but  he  saw  Tabywana 
coming  along  the  platform,  and  there  was  too  much 
at  stake  to  allow  him  to  gratify  his  feeling  of  anger 
against  Bill  then.  He  gave  a  low,  chuckling  laugh. 

"A  remark  I  overlook  for  the  time  bein',  as  I  ain't 
agoin'  to  take  advantage  of  the  absence  of  the  furrin' 
gent  that  owns  you." 

He  came  towards  Tabywana,  who,  halting  and 
stumbling,  was  trying  to  cross  the  room.  Cash 
laughed  malevolently  as  he  noticed  his  helpless  con 
dition.  The  Indian  was  trailing  his  blanket  along 
the  ground,  his  feathers  were  broken,  and  all  in 
telligence — even  cunning — was  blotted  from  his  fac.e. 

166 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

The  unconquerable  dignity  of  a  fallen  aristocrat  alone 
remained,  and  even  handicapped  as  he  was  by  his 
inebriated  condition,  he  stood  out  against  the  others 
in  the  saloon  as  the  one  true  claimant  of  America's 
royal  race. 

Cash  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  steered  him  to  the 
bar,  "Hello,  Chief,"  he  began,  most  affably;  "come 
over  here  and  we'll  close  our  trade  in  a  jiffy." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  his  mouth  began  its  rapacious 
twitching — Cash  was  really  a  little  nervous  over  the 
deal.  The  government  once  in  a  while  remembered 
its  people,  and  took  up  the  claim  of  the  red  man. 
He  drew  from  his  belt  a  paper. 

"Ther's  the  big  treaty,  Chief,"  he  hurriedly  began  to 
explain.  "Now  all  you  got  to  do  is  to  make  your 
mark  to  it."  He  spoke  aloud  so  that  all  could  hear 
as  he  said,  "Heap  good  trade."  Cash  was  clever 
enough  to  know  that  if  the  deal  took  place  in  the 
saloon  in  the  presence  of  Nick  it  would  seem,  if  in 
quiry  were  made  later,  a  fair  deal. 

But  Tabywana's  mind  had  been  tortured  by  one 
desire — more  drink  from  the  bottle  that  the  white 
man  controlled. 

He  mumbled  helplessly  as  he  leaned  against  the  bar 
and  began  soliciting  Nick  for  a  drink. 

"What's  that?  You  don't  want  to  trade?"  Cash 
burst  forth.  "Why,  damn  you—  Then  he  paused; 
to  lose  his  temper  would  accomplish  nothing.  A  little 
patience  and  he  could  force  Tabywana  to  make  his 
mark.  He  glanced  about  the  saloon.  -The  others 

xa  167 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

were  paying  little  attention  to  him — a  drunken  Indian 
was  of  no  moment  to  them.  He  signalled  Nick  that 
he  would  take  the  responsibility  of  giving  the  Indian 
liquor.  Both  knew  it  was  against  the  law,  but  both 
also  knew  that  it  was  a  law  daily  broken. 

"Touge-wayno  fire-water,"  wailed  Tabywana. 

Cash  took  hold  of  him.  "What's  the  matter, 
you—" 

Tabywana  turned  to  him.  Yes,  for  days  this 
Cash  Hawkins  had  given  him  his  drink;  why  shouldn't 
he  do  so  now  ?  Nick  was  watching  them  from  over 
his  shoulder  as  he  took  down  a  bottle  of  rye.  Taby 
wana  pointed  to  him. 

"No  give  'em,  me — heap  like  'em — big  medicine, 
sick.  Me  all  time  heap  sick."  By  his  gestures  he 
indicated  that  his  body  was  suffering  for  the  medicine. 
"Wayno  medicine,"  he  continued.  "Pretty  soon, 
more  fire-water,  catch  'em.  Pretty  soon — maybe  so — 
no  sick."  Incoherently  he  tried  to  explain  that  the 
drink  would  cure  him  at  once.  If  not,  then  pretty 
soon  he  would  be  very  ill. 

Even  at  a  moment  like  this  Nick  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  tease  the  Chief.  He  poured  out 
some  whiskey,  Tabywana  tried  to  reach  it,  but  Nick 
lifted  the  glass  and  drank  it.  The  sight  of  it  mad 
dened  Tabywana:  with  his  two  fists  he  struck  the  bar 
and  gave  vent  to  his  rage  in  a  loud  voice. 

Cash  saw  it  was  time  to  finish  the  business.  He  put 
his  arm  about  Tabywana,  while  he  directed  Nick  to 
give  the  Indian  the  bottle. 

168 


THE   SQAW   MAN 

"It's  agin  the  law  to  give  you  whiskey,  Chief. 
'Tain't  every  one's  got  the  nerve  to  treat  you  like  a 
white  man."  By  this  time  he  was  holding  the  bottle 
high  up  in  the  air.  "But  there  ain't  no  one  here 
abouts  goin'  to  question  any  trade  I  make.  Every 
man  has  an  inalienable  right  —  say,  *  inalienable  V 
great,  Chief — that's  good  medicine,"  he  translated — 
"inalienable  right  to  git  drunk  if  he  wants  to,  and  I'm 
agoin'  to  protect  you  in  your  rights." 

He  held  the  paper  close  to  Tabywana;  he  lowered 
his  voice. 

"Now  just  put  your  mark  to  that  paper  and  you 
get  this  bottleful  and  the  time  of  your  life."  The 
words  were  accompanied  with  explanatory  gestures 
so  that  Tabywana  could  understand. 

The  Indian  tried  to  reach  the  bottle.  Then  he  saw 
the  paper;  he  took  hold  of  the  pen  and  bent  over  it. 
As  he  did  so  a  girl's  figure  slid  in  between  him  and 
Cash,  and  the  bottle  went  smashing  out  of  Cash 
Hawkins's  hand  up  against  the  bottles  and  glasses  on 
the  shelf  at  the  back  of  the  bar.  There  was  a  crash 
of  breaking  glass  and  a  snarling  curse  from  Hawkins. 

Tabywana  stood  dazed  for  a  moment  at  the  sight 
of  Nat-u-ritch,  who  silently  faced  him  and  Hawkins. 
He  made  a  sweeping  gesture  of  fury,  and  attempted 
to  strike  Nat-u-ritch,  but  she  cleverly  dodged  him. 
The  force  of  the  unarrested  blow  carried  Tabywana 
against  a  table,  he  stumbled  into  a  chair,  made  an 
attempt  to  rise,  but,  after  a  desperate  effort,  fell  back 
in  a  drunken  stupor,  oblivious  to  his  surroundings. 

169 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

The  sudden  burst  of  anger  was  the  natural  climax  to 
days  of  dissipation. 

The  crash  of  the  glasses  and  the  sudden  entrance  of 
the  girl  attracted  the  attention  of  the  gamblers.  Some 
of  them,  scenting  a  fracas,  stopped  playing;  others 
merely  looked  up,  and  then  went  on  with  the  game. 
What  did  an  Indian,  male  or  female,  matter  to  them  ? 

Cash  propped  himself  up  against  the  bar.  For 
the  first  time  he  really  was  brought  within  close  range 
of  Nat-u-ritch.  Silent  and  immovable  she  stood, 
guarding  the  sunken  form  of  her  father.  Her  head 
was  erect  and  she  looked  her  contempt  and  scorn  full 
in  Hawkins's  face.  In  her  hands  she  held  the  fallen 
blanket  of  her  father. 

"Well,  what  d'ye  think  of  it,  eh?"  Cash  finally 
ejaculated.  His  eyes  took  note  of  the  girl's  physical 
perfection.  "Say,  fer  spunk  and  grit  dam'f  I  ever 
see  her  equal.  Say,  she  can  have  me,  kin  Tabywana's 
squaw." 

Nick  interposed  sullenly  as  he  straightened  up  the 
disordered  bar. 

"She  ain't  Tabywana's  squaw — that's  Nat-u-ritch, 
his  gal — his  daughter." 

"Daughter  or  squaw,  don't  make  no  difference  to 
me."  Cash  slouched  up  to  Nat-u-ritch  and  insolently 
surveyed  her.  "She's  puty,  she  is,  and  I'll  include 
her  in  the  deal.  Say,  sis,  I  like  your  looks.  You 
please  me  a  whole  lot,  and  I'll  buy  you  along  with 
your  father's  cattle — savvy  ?" 

Still  she  made  no  answer — she  knew  what  the  white 

170 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

man  was  suggesting.  That  she  had  accomplished 
what  she  had  dared  to  save  her  father  now  frightened 
her.  She  wanted  to  get  him  away  and  escape  with 
him.  But  how  ?  She  could  not  leave  him.  She 
only  clutched  the  blanket  tighter. 

Cash  caught  sight  of  the  half-breed  Baco,  who  was 
often  called  in  to  act  as  interpreter  by  the  white  men. 
"Baco,"  he  called,  "what's  her  name  mean?"  He 
designated  Nat-u-ritch  with  his  thumb. 

Baco  grinned:  "Purty  little  gal."  He  had  cast 
his  own  eyes  unsuccessfully  on  Nat-u-ritch. 

"Well,  she  lives  up  to  the  name  all  right.  Ain't  she 
hell?"  Cash  drooped  lowTer  against  the  bar.  "Say, 
Nat-u-ritch,  you  take  chances  with  me  when  you 
interfere  that  way  like  you  did  jest  now." 

Along  the  platform  Jim  swung,  the  gray  dust 
whitening  his  leather  chaps  and  dusting  his  shirt  and 
hat  with  a  heavy  powder.  He  had  ridden  hard  to 
keep  his  appointment  with  Bill  and  his  men.  As  he 
entered  the  centre  door  of  the  saloon  he  watched 
Hawkins  and  the  little  Indian  girl  with  curiosity. 
He  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  The  drunken 
Chief,  the  tigerish  Hawkins  bending  over  the  girl  like 
an  animal  about  to  crunch  a  ewe  lamb,  and  the  con 
tents  of  the  smashed  bottle  that  Nick  was  wiping 
away  told  him  what  had  occurred.  Cash  was  saying: 

"Nat-u-ritch,  you  spoiled  a  very  puty  deal,  and  I 
ain't  complaisant  a  whole  lot  with  people  as  do  that, 
but  I'm  goin'  to  pass  that  up,  'cause  you  please  me, 
and  I'm  goin'  to  annex  you.  You're  comin'  to  my 

171 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

wickyup — savvy  ?  And  to  seal  the  bargain,  and  to 
show  you  that  I  ain't  proud  like  the  ordinary  white 
man,  I'm  goin*  to  give  you  a  kiss." 

Before  Hawkins  could  catch  the  resisting  girl  in  his 
arms,  Jim  quietly  stepped  between  them." 

"Drop  that,  Hawkins."  The  voice  of  the  English 
man  was  electrical.  Jim's  men  jumped  to  their  feet. 
At  a  move  of  Cash's  hand  to  his  belt  they  grasped 
their  guns.  "Don't  pull  your  gun,  Cash,"  Jim  said. 
"You  want  to  get  your  gang  together  before  you  do 
that.  My  boys  would  shoot  you  into  ribbons."  Jim 
was  smoking  a  long  cigar.  He  coolly  took  it  from  his 
lips,  knocked  off  the  ashes,  then  bent  over  Nat-u-ritch 
and  whispered  to  her.  Her  eyes  alone  answered  him. 
He  was  about  to  join  his  men  when  Cash  Hawkins 
swaggered  up  to  him. 

"Say,  son,  ain't  you  courtin'  disaster  interferin'  in 
my  private  business  ?"  he  threatened.  He  knew  he 
dare  not  fight  alone  against  Jim  and  his  men,  so  he 
played  for  time.  If  only  he  had  his  gang! 

Jim  replied:  "Do  you  call  it  'business'  robbing 
Indians  when  they're  drunk,  and  insulting  women  ?" 

The  cow-boy  honor — for  Cash  had  a  crude  drilling 
in  the  laws  of  the  West — flamed  at  the  last  words,  and 
in  all  sincerity,  true  to  his  American  point  of  view,  he 
answered,  hotly: 

"Don't  you  accuse  me  of  insultin'  women.  She 
ain't  a  woman — she's  a  squaw." 

Jim  turned  away.     Why  argue  ? 

"Bill,"  he  said,  "you  and  Grouchy  put  Tabywana 

172 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

on  his  pony.  Nat-u-ritch,  pike  way,  and  take  your 
father  with  you."  He  knew  she  could  manage  the 
ponies  and  arrive  at  her  wickyup  in  safety;  in  fact, 
the  pony  would  take  the  Chief  home  as  he  would  a 
dead  weight,  if  Tabywana  was  once  strapped  on  his 
back. 

The  men  struggled  with  the  heavy  body  of  Taby 
wana,  and  they  finally  succeeded  in  dragging  him 
across  the  room,  followed  by  Nat-u-ritch  carrying  the 
blanket.  Cash  could  only  watch — he  was  helpless — 
so  he  snarled: 

"You've  spoiled  my  trade,  eh?" 

Jim  turned  to  him.  "The  bar  is  closed  to  Indians 
m  Maverick."  He  meant  Cash  to  infer  that  he  could 
make  it  unpleasant  for  him  if  he  called  the  govern 
ment's  attention  to  the  matter. 

But  Cash  only  sneeringly  asked,  "By  whose  or 
ders  ?" 

"Uncle  Sam's  orders,  and  they're  backed  up  by  the 
big  <  C '  brand." 

At  these  words  Shorty  and  Andy  both  pulled  their 
guns,  and  stood  ready  to  defend  Jim's  statement. 
Cash  gave  a  loud  shout,  then  threw  himself  against 
the  bar  as  he  screamed  to  attract  the  people  in  the 
room. 

"Gents,"  he  called,  "the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association  is  in  the  saddle.  Say,"  he  wildly  went  on, 
"it's  goin'  to  be  perfectly  sweet  in  Maverick.  Nick" 
— he  turned  to  the  bartender,  who  now  wished  that 
Hawkins  would  go — "  Til  be  back  for  a  glass  of  lemon- 

'73 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

ade."  Then  he  came  to  Jim,  and,  bowing  low,  he 
said,  with  all  the  venom  and  malice  of  his  nature, 
"And  say,  angel-face,  when  I  come  back  you  better 
be  prepared  to  lead  in  prayer." 

He  made  a  lunge  at  Jim,  but  the  sharp  eyes  of 
his  men  never  left  his  hands.  Cash  gave  a  wild  roar 
of  derisive  laughter,  flung  himself  across  the  room, 
turned  at  the  door,  pointed  to  Jim,  again  laughed 
wildly,  and  then  disappeared.  Shorty  and  Andy  fol 
lowed  him  to  the  door.  Jim,  indifferent,  with  his 
back  to  him,  walked  to  a  table  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room. 

The  place  was  silent  now.  Jim  knew  he  had  re 
ceived  a  direct  challenge.  According  to  the  laws  of 
the  West,  Cash  was  entitled  to  get  his  men  together  to 
meet  Jim  and  his  men.  Every  one  in  the  saloon  was 
on  the  alert.  The  Englishman  was  not  well  known 
there,  but  from  what  they  had  heard  they  knew  he 
was  courageous.  Would  he  prove  it  now  ?  If  so,  it 
meant  that  he  would  be  there  when  Cash  returned. 
Shorty  turned  from  the  door. 

"He'll  be  back,"  he  said,  without  looking  at 
Jim. 

Jim  went  on  smoking.  "Of  course,"  he  answered. 
He  deliberately  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  began 
shuffling  the  cards. 

Then  Shorty  and  the  crowd  knew  that  he  meant  to 
see  the  thing  through.  It  was  a  quiet  way,  but,  they 
all  agreed,  a  good  way  of  accepting  it.  Shorty  ex 
changed  glances  with  Andy.  The  boss  was  of  the 

174 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

right  sort.  A  little  more  dash  would  have  pleased 
them  better,  still — • 

"Und  say,"  Andy  said,  "und  with  his  gang."  He 
didn't  want  the  boss  to  make  too  light  of  the  prop 
osition. 

But  Shorty,  who  now  was  sure  of  Jim,  answered  for 
him,  "So  much  the  better,  eh?  We  can  clean  'em 
all  up  together.  Say,  boss,  what  did  you  let  him  make 
it  a  matter  of  Injins  fer  ?  You  got  the  sentiment  of 
the  kummunity  agin  you  right  from  the  start.  Looks 
like  fightin'  for  trifles." 

Grouchy,  who  had  the  news  from  Andy,  who  was 
now  explaining  it  to  Bill,  straddled  into  a  chair  as  he 
said,  "Yes,  it's  some  dignified  to  fight  over  cattle, 
but  Injins — pshaw!" 

Jim  knew  it  was  useless  to  try  to  explain.  Their 
opinions  on  these  matters  were  as  separate  as  the  poles; 
but  they  were  a  good  sort,  and  served  him  well  and 
faithfully.  Personally  he  did  not  care  for  this  pro 
posed  fight  with  Hawkins.  He  wanted  peace — some 
days  when  he  might  dream  and  drift  and  watch  the 
sand  plains,  when  the  work  was  done.  The  broils  of 
the  saloons,  the  point  of  view  of  the  crowd,  the  honor 
of  the  West  really  mattered  little  to  him,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  boys,  and  that  their  pride  in  him  might 
not  suffer,  he  often  accepted  their  definition  of  the  code 
of  life  that  was  followed  in  Maverick.  He  knew  how 
to  win  them,  so  he  began: 

"Well,  boys,  I  don't  want  to  drag  you  into  my 
quarrel.  If  you  feel  that  way  about  Indians — "  He 

175 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

was  about  to  add  that  he  did  not,  but  Shorty  in 
terrupted  : 

"Pull  up,  boss;  'tain't  fair  to  make  us  look  as  if  we 
were  trying  to  sneak  out  of  a  scrap.  It  was  only  the 
cause  of  it.  You  ain't  got  a  quitter  in  your  gang,  and 
you  know  it." 

"I  know  it,  Shorty."  Jim  was  obliged  to  laugh  at 
the  eager  faces  of  the  three  men  who  stood  close  to 
him,  like  excited  children  waiting  to  be  understood. 

"Well,  don't  say  anything  more  about  it,  will  you  ? 
Let's —  Shorty  put  out  his  hand. 

Jim  grasped  it.  "Let  it  go  at  that,"  Jim  finished. 
"You  understand  that  you  are  to  leave  Cash  to  me  un 
less  more  get  into  the  game." 

Bill,  who  had  been  listening  to  it  all,  drew  Jim  aside. 
He  preferred  peace,  but  knew  that  they  and  Carston's 
ranch  stood  marked  for  the  crowd  to  jeer  at  for  all 
time  unless  they  did  what  was  expected  of  them  by 
the  laws  of  the  cow  town,  made  by  its  men,  not  by 
the  government  that  they  abused. 

"Jim"  — Bill  spoke  over  his  shoulder  — "Bud 
Hardy,  the  County  Sheriff,  is  standing  just  behind 
you  at  the  bar,  and  he's  particular  thick  with  Cash. 
Got  to  take  him  into  account." 

Jim  nodded;  with  his  arm  through  Bill's  he  crossed 
to  a  side  entrance  and  stood  under  the  porch.  He 
wanted  to  discuss  with  Bill  what  was  best  to  do. 
Shorty  and  Andy  stood  up  against  the  bar  and  treated 
their  particular  friends  to  drinks.  They  felt  it  was 
going  to  be  a  red-letter  day  for  Carston's  ranch. 

176 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Outside  the  Overland  Limited  tooted  at  intervals, 
and  sent  up  shrill  whistles,  but  made  no  attempt  to 
leave  Maverick.  One  official's  information  was  de 
nied  by  the  next  ont .  Passengers  had  come  in  and  had 
gone  again — some  of  them  frightened,  some  disgusted 
by  the  life  of  the  saloon.  A  little  farther  down  the 
line  others  of  the  passengers  were  being  amused  by 
some  Indians  who,  at  the  news  of  the  train's  stopping, 
had  hurried  to  the  railroad. 

Cash's  departure  had  allowed  the  place  to  grow 
quiet.  Even  Nick  hoped  he  would  not  find  his  men 
and  return.  There  was  a  sudden  shunting  of  the 
train,  and  the  rear  car  moved  back  in  to  more  direct 
view  of  the  saloon.  Diana,  tired  of  the  wait,  had 
finally  persuaded  Sir  John  and  Henry  to  alight  and 
see  the  place.  They  all  entered  together. 

"By  Jove,  what  a  rum  hole!"  Sir  John  ex 
claimed. 

"Hello,  there's  a  faro-table!"  exclaimed  Henry. 

All  that  Diana  said  was,  "I  thought  you  had  given 
up  play,  Henry." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  but  a  little  sport  to  kill  the 
tedium  of  this  infernal  wait — the  monotony  of  the 
thing  is  getting  on  my  nerves.  John,  will  you  look 
after  Di  while  I  at  least  watch  the  game  ?" 

"Delighted,"  Sir  John  replied,  but  his  anxious  face 
showed  that  he  thoroughly  disapproved  of  the  pro 
ceedings.  "Really,  Diana,"  he  began,  "let  me  pre 
vail  upon  you  to  leave  here.  Any  one  who  remains  in 

177 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 
a  place  of  this  kind  is  taking  chances — oh,  believe 


me—" 


"Nonsense;  it  all  looks  deadly  dull  to  me." 

The  men,  recognizing  a  quietly  gowned  gentle 
woman,  paid  no  attention  to  them. 

"Why,  I'm  not  afraid,  John.  What's  liable  to 
happen  ?" 

Sir  John  Applegate's  mind  was  filled  with  stories 
of  the  West  he  had  heard  and  read  in  his  boyhood 
days. 

"Why,  these  desperadoes  are  liable  to  come  in  here 
and  request  you  to  dance — dance  for  their  amuse 
ment,  by  Jove!" 

"Well,  what  of  that?  We  don't  do  it,"  Diana 
teasingly  interrupted. 

"Oh  yes,  my  dear  Diana,  we  do  do  it.  The  re 
quest  is  an  order,  you  know — obligatory — oh,  quite! 
Because,  believe  me,  if  we  do  not  accede  to  their 
absurd  request,  they  playfully  shoot  your  toes  off,  by 
Jove!  They  are  shockingly  rude,  by  Jove!  these 
chaps,  believe  me — oh,  shockingly!" 

Diana  looked  about  the  room. 

"I've  read  of  such  things,  but  I  don't  believe  they 
happen — do  you  ?" 

Henry  was  lost  to  them  in  the  crowd  around  the 
faro-table.  Several  other  passengers  from  the  train 
had  joined  him.  Sir  John  really  did  not  like  the  look 
of  the  place;  at  the  moment  he  caught  Pete's  eyes 
fastened  in  amusement  on  him.  He  drew  Diana  to 
one  corner,  and  as  he  did  so  they  came  within  range 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

of  Jim's  sight.  He  was  coming  in  to  join  Shorty  and 
explain  what  he  and  Bill  had  decided  to  do  when  Cash 
returned.  As  he  saw  Diana  he  involuntarily  drew 
back.  It  was  only  one  of  the  old  tormenting  visions 
that  had  returned,  he  thought.  He  drew  his  hands 
over  his  eyes — but  no,  he  saw  her  again!  Impossible! 
He  leaned  forward — it  was  Di,  and  in  Maverick!  In 
spite  of  the  sudden  pain  and  bewilderment  he  smiled 
as  he  realized  how  the  unexpected  played  its  part  in 
life.  Di  in  Maverick! 

There  was  no  time  to  reason  it  out.  He  could  not 
see  Henry,  only  Sir  John.  He  saw  Diana  watching 
with  curiosity  the  place  and  its  occupants.  He 
mingled  quickly  with  the  crowd  at  the  bar,  hoping 
they  would  leave  shortly. 

Sir  John  was  continuing  his  tirade  against  the  ranch 
men,  and  vainly  trying  to  persuade  Diana  to  return  to 
the  car.  She  was  examining  some  crude  pictures  on 
the  walls. 

"When  they  wish,"  Sir  John  said,  "these  fellows 
shoot  out  the  lights,  the  windows,  and  the  bar  furnish 
ings.  They  are  very  whimsical — that's  the  American 
humor  that  they  talk  so  much  about.  I  don't  care  for 
whimsies  myself."  Diana  began  to  laugh.  Really,  she 
was  thinking,  she  had  never  known  how  absurd  and 
old-womanish  Sir  John  could  be.  But  he  continued: 
"Then,  if  you  don't  see  fit  to  respond  to  their  silly 
gayety,  they  kill  you,  by  Jove!  that's  all.  I  can't  see 
the  joke  of  it,  you  know.  For  example,  one  of  them 
comes  in  here  and  invites  us  all,  believe  me,  to  drink 

179 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

with  him.  It's  not  the  proper  thing  to  reply,  'Thanks 
awfully,  old  chap,  but  I'm  not  thirsty,'  or  'I've  just 
had  a  drink/  or  *  Excuse  me,  won't  you,'  because  if 
you  say  that,  he's  very  angry,  don't  you  know.  You 
have  offered  him  a  deadly  insult;  he  does  not  know 
you,  never  saw  you  before,  hopes  never  to  see  you 
again,  and  yet  if  you  do  not  drink  something  which 
you  do  not  want  he  kills  you.  That's  deliciously 
whimsical  now,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Cousin  John,  if  I  didn't  know  your  reputation  as 
a  soldier,  I'd  think  you  were  afraid."  Diana,  followed 
by  Sir  John,  moved  nearer  the  corner  where  Jim  was 
standing. 

Jim  could  see  the  sweet  beauty  of  her  face.  He  felt 
a  sudden  dizziness.  It  was  more  than  he  could  en 
dure.  He  started  to  leave,  when  he  felt  Bill's  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"This  place  is  too  stuffy  for  me;  I  must  get  out  into 
the  air,"  he  explained. 

"Leave  the  saloon  now,  Jim!"  Bill  exclaimed,  in 
amazement.  Surely  Jim  was  not  weakening.  "If 
you  ain't  here  to  face  Cash  Hawkins  when  he  comes 
back  you  lose  your  standing  among  the  people  with 
whom  you  live.  You  ain't  agoin'  to  do  that,  are  you, 
boy?" 

"Oh  yes — Cash."  With  the  remembrance  of  Haw 
kins  came  the  resolve  to  remain  in  the  saloon  until 
Diana  left.  He  must  be  there  to  protect  her  if  neces 
sary.  "I'd  forgotten  Cash;  I  was  thinking  of  some 
thing  else,  Bill."  Then,  as  he  encountered  Bill's 

1 80 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

searching  eyes,  he  added,  "Oh  yes;  remember,  if  Cash 
returns,  each  of  you  pick  your  man  and  leave  him  to 


me." 


He  drew  closer  to  the  crowd  at  the  bar;  Diana  was 
not  likely  to  venture  there.  She  had  joined  Henry, 
and,  with  Sir  John,  they  were  about  to  leave  the  place. 

Suddenly  there  was  the  sound  of  the  clattering  of  a 
troop  outside.  At  every  entrance  to  the  saloon — and 
there  were  four — a  man  entered  flourishing  a  gun, 
while  through  the  centre  door  rushed  Cash,  who  by 
this  time  had  worked  himself  up  into  a  frenzy  of 
passion.  Straight  into  the  ceiling  he  shot  his  revolver, 
and  said: 

"Nick,  every  one  in  the  Long  Horn  drinks  with 


me." 


Every  means  of  egress  was  barred  by  Hawkins's 
men.  Jim  drew  behind  Bill's  burly  figure.  If  only 
Cash  would  allow  the  strangers  to  go,  was  his  one 
thought.  Henry  looked  at  Sir  John;  Diana,  half 
frightened,  grasped  a  chair.  The  men  in  the  place 
made  a  hurried  rush  towards  the  bar;  deep  in  rows  they 
stood  there.  Then  Cash  noticed  the  three  figures;  but 
it  only  added  to  the  zest  of  the  situation  for  him. 
Diana,  watching  his  cruel  face,  realized  that  Sir  John's 
yarn  of  adventure  might  prove  a  true  one. 

The  saloon  waited  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CASH  had  been  drinking  heavily  all  day,  but 
there  was  no  sign  that  it  had  weakened  his 
faculties.  On  the  contrary,  the  exhilaration  of  the 
liquor  served  to  strengthen  his  dogged  humor  as  he 
compelled  the  inmates  of  the  saloon,  strangers  and 
all,  to  do  his  bidding. 

"By  Jove,  Di,  we  are  in  for  it,"  Sir  John  muttered. 
Then  he  turned  irritably  to  Henry,  who  was  close  to 
him,  "You  have  let  us  get  in  for  a  nice  mess  up." 
He  was  not  afraid,  but  more  than  anything  in  the 
world  he  disliked  a  scene.  He  had  travelled  enough 
to  know  that  they  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  rough 
humor  of  these  men.  When  occasion  warranted  he 
could  match  others  in  decision  and  courage,  but  he 
also  knew  that  the  consequences  of  the  present  situa 
tion  were  apt  to  be  needlessly  unpleasant.  From  the 
beginning  he  had  been  averse  to  Henry's  allowing 
Diana  to  come  with  them;  however,  they  must  find  a 
way  out  of  it.  He  began  to  survey  the  crowd  of  men 
critically. 

Jim,  who  was  watching  Diana,  spoke,  though  still 
hidden  among  the  crowd  at  the  bar. 

"There  are  some  outsiders,  Hawkins,  from  the 

182 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

train.  You  don't  care  to  mix  them  up  in  our  fes 
tivities,  I  suppose."  By  humoring  Cash  he  also 
hoped  to  find  a  way  out  for  Diana  and  the  others. 
His  voice  attracted  Sir  John's  attention. 

"Quite  so,"  he  rejoined.  "We  have  had  a  delight 
ful  time,  don't  you  know."  Then  he  turned  to  the 
desperado,  who,  with  the  smoking  pistol  still  in  his 
hand,  was  leaning  against  the  centre-table  and  laugh 
ing  at  the  strangers'  discomfiture.  "Awfully  jolly 
of  you  to  invite  us,  but  circumstances  over  which  we 
have  no  control,  don't  you  know — "  He  grew  pain 
fully  muddled. 

"That's  right,  pane  in  the  face,"  said  Cash. 

Sir  John  dropped  his  eye-glass  in  disgust. 

"Circumstances  over  which  you  have  no  control," 
sneered  Cash.  "You  describe  the  situation  accurate. 
I'm  a-runnin'  this  here  garden-party,  and  I  ain't 
agoin'  to  let  anybody  miss  the  fun — savvy  ?" 

Jim's  intervention  had  only  hurt  their  chances  of 
escaping  from  the  saloon.  Cash  motioned  his  men, 
with  their  drawn  guns,  to  stand  close  at  the  entrances. 
Jim  saw  Diana  turn  pale.  He  forgot  everything;  he 
only  knew  that  she  stood  there — that  at  this  moment 
Henry  and  Sir  John  were  powerless  to  help  her.  He 
must  get  her  away  from  the  place;  he  would  agree — 
promise  Cash  whatever  he  wished  in  return — only 
Diana  must  be  allowed  to  leave. 

"  But  the  lady — you  won't  detain  the  lady  against  her 
will  ?"     He  knew  the  weakness  of  Cash's  nature;  to 
appeal  to  him  as  a  gallant  might  be  efficacious.     In 
13  183 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

his  earnestness  to  carry  his  point  Jim  stepped  out  from 
among  the  men  around  the  bar. 

Almost  simultaneously  a  low  cry  of  "Jim"  broke 
from  Henry  and  Diana.  It  was  followed  by  an 
ejaculation  from  Sir  John.  It  passed  unremarked, 
and  Jim  determined  to  ignore  what  his  impetuous 
folly  had  brought  upon  him.  Cash  was  oblivious  of 
everything  save  his  revenge.  He  bowed  low  to  Diana 
—he  would  be  polite  to  the  lady,  even  if  the  request 
came  from  Jim. 

"I  am  going  to  give  the  lady  the  chance  to  see  how 
an  Englishman  looks  when  he  has  to  take  his  medi 
cine."  He  looked  at  Diana.  "She's  sure  a  thorough 
bred — she  ain't  batted  an  eye  nor  turned  a  hair.  I'll 
bet  a  hundred  to  one  she  stays." 

Diana  could  at  that  moment  have  passed  out  of  the 
saloon,  leaving  Henry  and  Sir  John  there,  but  she  saw 
only  Jim.  It  was  Jim — Jim  in  those  strange  clothes 
— Jim  so  bronzed,  so  strong,  so  masterful.  What  a 
contrast  to  Henry! 

Cash  waited  for  her  answer.  He  adored  playing 
to  the  gallery  —  this  was  heightening  the  situation 
beyond  all  expectation. 

"She  stays,"  he  finally  said.  "Good!  Gents,  this 
is  to  be  a  nice,  quiet,  sociable  affair — ladies  are  pres 
ent.  Any  effort  to  create  trouble  will  be  nipped  in 
the  bud.  Gents,  to  the  bar." 

He  turned  to  Henry  and  Sir  John  as  he  spoke.  He 
had  a  contempt  for  the  men,  but  there  was  something 
about  this  quiet,  dignified  woman  that  embarrassed 

184 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

him,  though  he  would  have  been  the  last  to  admit  it. 
A  few  more  drinks  and  he  might  be  dangerous,  but 
at  present  he  was  still  master  of  himself.  Hi,  game 
was  to  make  Jim  and  his  gang  ridiculous  before  the 
strangers.  Afterwards — well,  then  the  serious  settling 
of  their  score  should  come.  He  took  a  glass  that  was 
handed  him  across  the  bar  and  gulped  down  its  con 
tents. 

Henry  was  whispering  to  Diana,  "For  God's  sake, 
go — you  can,  and  later  we  will  follow  you.  This 
will  be  over  in  a  minute."  But  Diana  only  held 
tighter  the  rail  of  the  chair. 

"We  can't  drink  with  this  confounded  bounder, 
Henry,"  Sir  John  expostulated.  "It's  too  absurd, 
you  know.  Her  Majesty's  officers  can't  do  a  thing 
like  that,  now  can  they  ?" 

"We  must  humor  the  drunken  brute,  Sir  John, 
that's  the  only  way  out  of  it." 

That  Jim  was  there  none  of  them  acknowledged  to 
each  other.  Events  were  assuming  a  strange  un 
reality.  What  had  been  meant  for  a  half-hour's 
diversion  was  involving  them  in  a  highly  dangerous 
situation.  The  saloon  grew  hotter — little  air  reached 
them  through  the  barred  doorway.  Still  Diana  did 
not  go.  The  old  imperative  cry,  stifled  for  the  last 
two  years,  awoke  again.  She  forgot  the  dust,  the  hot 
saloon,  the  swaggering  crowd  of  ranchmen.  The  noise 
and  wild  excitement  fell  on  her  unheeding  ears.  Jim 
was  there,  and  his  presence  held  her  rooted  to  the 
spot. 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim  had  moved  into  a  corner  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
bar,  and  furtively  watched  Cash  and  his  men. 

"Ste;>  up  lively,  sonny,"  Cash  called  to  Sir  John 
and  Henry,  "or  you  may  have  to  dance  the  Highland 
fling." 

Sir  John  stole  a  look  of  self-justification  at  Diana, 
but  she  did  not  see  it.  It  was  turning  out  just  as  he 
had  told  her. 

"And  shoot  our  toes  off,  by  Jove,"  he  whispered  to 
Henry.  "And  he'll  do  it,  too,  confounded  bounder!" 
he  muttered,  as  both  men  went  towards  the  bar  and 
were  met  by  Pete,  who  handed  them  each  a  glass  of 
evil-looking  whiskey. 

Cash  began  to  direct  the  scene.  "Hand  out  the 
nose-paint,  gents." 

Every  one  took  a  drink,  Jim  too;  for  her  sake  he 
would  do  as  Hawkins  wished.  It  would  be  the 
quickest  way  to  end  this  part  of  the  business.  The 
serious  end  of  it  would  follow  when  they  were  alone. 

Suddenly  Cash,  whose  last  two  drinks  were  ren 
dering  him  more  offensive,  and  who  was  determined 
to  annoy  Sir  John  as  well  as  Jim,  said,  "Gents,  to  the 
success  of  the  Boers." 

To  the  crowd  it  was  a  foolish  toast;  it  meant  noth 
ing  to  them.  But  they  had  hardly  begun  to  toss  off 
their  drinks  when  there  came  a  crack  of  glass,  as  Sir 
John  Applegate  threw  his  tumbler  on  the  floor  and 
said,  "No,  I'll  be  damned." 

Cash  turned  on  him  with  an  imprecation,  and 
started  to  cover  him  with  his  gun.  This  unexpected 

1 86 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

diversion  was  the  chance  that  Jim  had  been  looking 
for.  In  an  instant  he  had  thrown  his  untasted  liquor 
into  Cash  Hawkins's  face.  It  blinded  Cash.  In 
voluntarily  he  fumbled  writh  his  guns,  and  in  an  in 
stant  Jim  had  thrust  his  revolver  into  Cash's  side. 
There  was  a  moment  of  pandemonium  as  Cash's 
imprecations  rilled  the  air.  The  men  at  the  door 
started  forward,  but  they  had  to  pay  for  the  moment's 
lowering  of  their  guns.  Big  Bill  and  Jim's  men  had 
been  eagerly  watching  their  opportunity,  and  speedily 
covered  Cash's  gang. 

"Put  your  hands  up  quick,"  Jim  ordered. 

Cash,  with  visible  reluctance,  complied.  There 
was  a  suppressed  madness  of  excitement  in  Jim's 
voice  as  he  said  to  Sir  John  Applegate:  "Oblige  me 
by  relieving  the  gentleman  of  his  guns;  it  will  tire  him 
to  hold  it  up  there  too  long."  Sir  John  obeyed.  It 
was  a  critical  moment — one  never  knew  which  way  a 
crowd  in  a  saloon  would  veer,  and  there  might  have 
been  a  riot  if  Cash  had  been  more  popular.  As  it 
happened  there  was  a  laugh  at  Jim's  words.  Sir  John 
reached  for  the  guns.  Cash,  gaunt  and  terrible  to 
look  at,  stood  still  while  they  were  taken  from  him. 
The  pressure  of  the  muzzle  at  his  side  caused  him  to 
loosen  his  final  reluctant  finger. 

"Delighted,  charmed,  I'm  sure,"  Sir  John  agreed. 

Jim,  still  covering  Cash  with  his  gun,  drove  him  up 
against  the  bar.  Those  of  the  crowd  who  knew  him 
realized  that  they  were  seeing  a  new  man  in  the 
Englishman.  He  was  conscious  of  Diana's  luminous 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

face  back  of  him,  of  Henry's  gray  countenance  close 
to  her  as  he  quietly  expostulated  with  her.  The  crowd 
swung  close  to  the  new  boss.  This  was  what  they 
wanted.  They  believed  he  would  prove  the  new 
leader  for  Maverick. 

"Every  man's  hands  on  the  bar,"  the  Englishman 
called,  and  he  and  his  men  covered  the  crowd  at  these 
words.  "I  ask  you,"  Jim  quietly  said,  "to  drink 
with  me  to  the  President  of  the  United  States." 

Men  who  had  cursed  their  President,  defied  the 
laws  of  the  country  that  had  elected  him,  and  who 
were  fugitives  from  the  justice  of  their  land  were 
touched  by  the  simple  and  tactful  toast.  All  glasses 
were  raised.  They  were  about  to  drink,  but  the  first 
sentence  was  followed  by  the  words: 

"And  to  her  Gracious  Majesty,  the  Queen." 

This  time  Jim  stood  ready  to  shoot;  but  it  was  un 
necessary — the  crowd  echoed  the  toast.  Why  not  ? 
The  Englishman  was  right.  Their  country  —  then 
his.  Not  a  bad  sort.  So  the  murmurs  went 
around. 

Suddenly  Hawkins  said,  as  he  watched  Sir  John: 

"Your  little  glass-eyed  friend  don't  drink." 

Sir  John's  glass  was  still  untouched. 

"Oh  yes,  he's  goin'  to  drink,"  Shorty  cut  in,  as  he 
crossed  to  the  group  near  the  table. 

v<  Ain't  nobody  excused  on  a  formal  show-down  like 
this!"  Bill  called. 

But  Sir  John,  carried  away  by  indignation  at  Jim's 
daring  to  propose  that  toast  to  the  country  and  the 

188 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

sovereign  he  believed  Jim  had  so  dishonored,  vehe 
mently  answered: 

"I'm  an  officer  in  her  Majesty's  service,  and,  by 
Jove!  I  won't  drink  with  a  man  who  fled  from  Eng 
land  after  robbing  the  widows  and  orphans  of  the 
Queen's  soldiers,  and  you  can  do  what  you  jolly  well 
like  about  it." 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  Jim.  Would  he  kill  the 
stranger  ?  Henry  held  Diana  by  the  arm.  Jim 
grew  pale  under  the  strain  of  the  moment's  intensity. 

Cash  was  the  first  to  speak.  "What  do  you  say  to 
that  ?"  he  drawled,  after  a  prolonged  whistle. 

But  Jim  kept  his  eyes  fastened  on  Sir  John.  "If  I 
were  the  man  you  think  me,"  he  said,  "you  would 
never  have  finished  that  sentence.  You  have  evi 
dently  mistaken  me  for  some  one  else.  My  name  is 
Jim  Carston,  and  I  never  took  a  penny  that  did  not 
belong  to  me." 

Even  to  Sir  John  the  words  rang  true,  but  he  had 
lost  all  control — he  was  determined  to  avenge  the  old 
score  of  dishonor  against  his  regiment. 

"Why,  confound  your  impudence,  there  stands 
your  cousin,  Henry  Kerhill!" 

The  crowd  swung  around.  This  was  the  moment — 
it  had  been  a  day  for  Maverick.  What  were  they 
now  to  learn  of  Cash's  "angel-face  "  ? 

Henry  crossed  to  Jim  and  faced  him.  There  was  a 
pause.  "Yes,"  he  answered,  with  as  much  non 
chalance  as  he  could  assume,  "I  believe  the  gentle 
man  does  bear  a  certain  bald  resemblance  to  the  man 

189 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

you  mean,  but  it  is  evidently  a  case  of  mistaken  iden 
tity."  Diana's  eyes  were  following  him  with  their 
mute  appeal.  He  continued:  "You  will  observe,  Sir 
John,  that  I  drank  the  toast.  I  trust  you  will  not 
refuse  to  drink  to  our  Queen  with  these  gentlemen  in  a 
foreign  country." 

The  ranchmen  liked  these  Englishmen.  They 
were  being  treated  with  great  consideration;  the  little 
one  was  amusing  but  he  was  all  right.  So  ran  the 
verdict  of  the  Long  Horn  saloon. 

Sir  John  Applegate  stood  unconvinced.  Henry's 
eyes  were  fastened  on  him,  and  he  read  there  some 
thing  that  held  a  reason  for  his  denial.  At  all 
events  he  had  been  most  unwise  —  he  knew  that 
now — and  he  must,  for  Diana's  sake,  undo  his  hasty 
words. 

"Well,  of  course,"  he  began,  as  he  realized  that 
further  comment  would  be  futile,  "I  was  under  the 
impression  that  I  hadn't  had  a  drink — not  one,  by 
Jove!  Well,  I  must  be  squiffy."  The  cow-punchers 
laughed.  "Here's,"  he  finished,  "to  her  Gracious 
Majesty  the  Queen — God  bless  her!" 

Big  Bill,  who  would  have  been  an  arch-diplomat  in 
another  sphere  of  life,  said: 

"Not  forgettin'  his  Gracious  Majesty  the  President, 
you  know." 

Sir  John  rose  to  the  occasion.  "Oh,  quite  so — his 
Royal  Highness  the  President — God  bless  him!" 

The  men  slapped  one  another  in  appreciation  of  the 
joke.  Sir  John  tried  to  drink  the  whiskey  of  the 

190 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

country,  but  with  a  sigh  he  said,  after  the  first  taste, 
"Say,  as  I  must  drink,  please  make  it  Scotch." 

During  the  scene  in  the  saloon  the  car  had  drawn 
down  the  line  and  was  shunting  up  and  down  the  rails 
in  a  way  comprehensible  only  to  the  powers  that 
control  an  engine.  Henry  apprehensively  looked 
towards  the  car,  and  went  to  meet  Dan,  whom  he 
could  see  at  the  farther  end  of  the  platform.  The 
meeting  with  Jim  had  been  painful,  and  he  was  al 
most  at  his  wits'  end.  As  he  could  not  force  Diana's 
prompt  withdrawal,  he  would  fetch  Dan  to  insist  upon 
the  passengers'  return  to  the  car. 

Jim  had  seen  Henry  slip  away  unobserved.  Would 
Diana  and  Sir  John  never  go  ?  He  could  see  that  the 
excitement  was  beginning  to  tell  on  Diana.  Sud 
denly  she  swayed — yet  he  dared  not  go  near  her. 

"Bill,"  he  called,  "the  lady  looks  as  though  she 
were  going  to  faint." 

Sir  John  and  Bill  started  towards  Diana,  but  Bill 
was  the  first  to  reach  her.  He  quickly  grasped  her 
by  the  arm  and  steadied  her. 

Diana  smiled  at  him.  "Thank  you,  I  was  dizzy 
for  a  moment." 

"On  behalf  of  the  genuine  cow-boys  present,  I  must 
apologize  to  this  lady  for  being  forced  to  remain  in  a 
place  like  this.  You  may  go,  madam."  Jim  spoke 
without  looking  at  her. 

" Thank  you,"  Diana  answered.  "  I  am  a  bit  shaken, 
but  I'm  glad  I  stayed." 

Bill  was  still  holding  her  hand  as  he  drew  a  chair 

191 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

towards  her.  "You're  tremblin',  lady.  Nick" — he 
turned  to  the  bar — "ain't  you  got  nothin'  in  the  way 
of  a  ladies'  drink  ?" 

"Right  off  the  bat."  Nick  took  a  bottle  from  the 
pyramid  behind  the  bar.  "Here's  a  bottle  of  Rhine 
wine  as  has  been  an  ornament  here  for  fifteen  years." 
As  he  spoke  he  dusted  the  slender-throated  flagon. 
"It's  unsalable.  I  never  tasted  it  but  once,  and  I 
hardly  knowed  I  had  had  a  drink.  It  was  just  like 
weak  tea;  but  it's  a  regulation  ladies'  drink,  and  if 
the  lady  will  honor  me,  it's  sure  on  the  house." 

Diana  had  sunk  into  the  chair — she  was  too  dazed 
to  know  what  to  do.  Sir  John  was  near  her. 

" That's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  Diana  said. 
She  took  the  glass  from  Bill's  hand.  "I  feel  better 
already." 

"It  'ain't  got  no  real  substance  to  it,  lady,  but  it's 
the  best  Nick's  got,  and  we'd  like  to  have  you  accept 
it,  jest  to  show  that  you  know  that  all  Western  men 
ain't  bad  men  and  all  cow-boys  ain't  loafers." 

As  he  spoke,  Bill  bowed  low.  Like  a  gallant  of  old, 
he  trailed  his  sombrero  on  the  ground.  Some  of  the 
men  began  to  feel  sentimental — they  were  like  weather 
cocks,  responding  readily  with  their  susceptible  nat 
ures  to  the  swaying  influence  of  the  moment. 

Hardly  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  Diana  sprang 
to  her  feet.  Jim  would  not  look  towards  her— well, 
then,  she  must  send  him  some  message.  "I  think  I 
understand,"  she  said  to  Bill.  "If  you  will  let  me,  I 
would  like  to  propose  a  toast — will  you  let  me  ?" 

192 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

The  room  echoed  the  assent  of  the  men.  They 
were  all  cavaliers — all  sombreros  were  off  and  all 
bowed  low  before  Diana.  The  cow-boy  has  much  of 
the  player  in  him.  Hardly  able  to  steady  her  sweet, 
tremulous  voice,  Diana  turned  directly  to  Jim  and 
moved  nearer  to  him,  while  she  lifted  her  glass  high 
in  the  air. 

"To  the  Queen's  champion,  Mr. — "  She  paused, 
her  eyes  were  blinded,  her  brain  clouded.  What  was 
the  name  he  had  called  himself?  "Mr. — "  she  again 
repeated. 

Bill's  voice  answered,  "Jim  Carston's  his  name, 
lady." 

Higher  she  held  the  glass.  Jim  had  turned  in  amaze 
ment.  Her  eyes  met  his. 

"Mr.  Jim  Carston."  Her  voice  rang  clear  and 
vibrant  this  time. 

"And  every  son  of  a  gun  in  this  hole  drinks  to  that, 
or  we'll  know  the  reason  why — eh,  boys?"  Bill  jubi 
lantly  cried.  Their  boss  had  brought  glory  to  diem 
that  day. 

"Jim  Carston!  Jim  Carston!"  The  name  rang 
through  the  place,  and  the  toast  was  drunk  with  en 
thusiasm.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  the  centre  door  was 
thrown  open  and  the  conductor's  big  voice  bawled: 

"All  passengers  for  the  Overland  Limited  —  all 
aboard!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  tooting  and  whistling  of  the  train  began.  The 
men  filed  outside.  In  the  crush  Cash  Hawkins, 
who  had  been  drinking  steadily  until  he  was  now  in  a 
decided  state  of  inebriation,  slunk  down  to  the  other 
end  of  the  platform.  Henry  and  Sir  John  assisted 
Diana  to  the  car.  The  cow-boys  swarmed  along  the 
platform — Jim  alone  stood  in  the  deserted  saloon. 

Before  he  was  aware  of  what  was  happening — that 
the  train  was  about  to  carry  away  this  tie  of  his  former 
life — he  heard  Diana's  voice  call  "Jim."  She  slipped 
from  the  lower  step  on  which  she  stood  and  ran  tow 
ards  him. 

"Diana!"  He  seized  her  out-stretched  hands — he 
must  say  something  to  her,  but  she  would  not  let  him 
speak. 

"I  shall  always  thank  God  for  this  day,  Jim.  I 
couldn't  believe  you  were — I  never  have.  Now  I 
know  the  sacrifices  you  have  made  for  me — now  I 
know  I  have  the  right  to  ask  God  to  bless  you  and 
keep  you  and  make  you  happy."  Her  voice  broke; 
tears  were  falling  on  his  hand. 

Lady  Elizabeth  or  Henry  would  never  discuss  the 
cause  of  Jim's  departure.  She  had  always  persist- 

194 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

ently  defended  him  to  the  world,  and  to-day  her  in 
tuition  had  told  her  that  for  her  sake  Jim  had  shielded 
his  cousin — her  husband!  How  could  she  accept  it? 

"And  you,  Diana — tell  me  you  are  happy." 

"Happy?"  Her  eyes  told  him  that  it  was  only 
possible  for  her  to  be  happy  now  that  she  knew  the 
truth.  "I  shaVt  mind  the  future  now  so  terribly, 
because  I  can  respect  somebody." 

Dan  passed  the  open  door.  "All  aboard,  lady,"  he 
briskly  called. 

"Good-bye,  Jim.  God  bless  you!"  She  felt  her 
self  being  helped  aboard  by  Dan;  she  tried  to  wave 
her  hand  to  Jim.  The  car  moved,  the  whistling  and 
ringing  of  the  bell  told  of  their  departure. 

It  was  Henry  who  led  her  to  a  chair  and  left  her 
there.  That  day  he  paid  in  full  for  his  life's  misdeeds. 

Jim  never  attempted  to  see  the  receding  car;  he 
could  hear  the  noise  of  the  departing  train  and  the 
cries  of  the  boys  as  they  hooted  their  good-byes. 

"  Kiss  the  baby  for  me."     It  was  big  Bill's  voice. 

"What  a  baby  Bill  is  himself!"  Jim  found  himself 
saying. 

"Tell  Sadie  to  write,"  called  Shorty. 

"Und  say — say  for  me  too,  you  bet."  The  voice 
of  the  German  was  drowned  in  the  roar  from  the  rest 
of  the  boys.  Only  Grouchy,  in  silence,  looked  on 
contemptuously. 

From  down  the  platform  came  the  yells  of  the  men. 
Even  Nick  had  deserted  his  bar.  Still,  Jim  did  not 
move.  He  could  hear  it  all;  he  knew  what  was  hap- 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

pening — that  the  train  was  steaming  away.  He  found 
himself  watching  flies  settle  on  a  beer-glass.  Then  he 
fell  into  a  chair,  let  his  head  slip  on  to  his  arms  that 
lay  across  the  table,  his  back  to  the  big  entrance  and 
to  the  smaller  one  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
There  was  no  movement  from  him  that  told  of  the 
agonies  he  was  enduring.  The  flies  buzzed  at  will 
about  the  place. 

The  door  at  the  side  swung  silently  open  and 
Nat-u-ritch  slipped  into  the  room.  In  her  soft  mocca 
sins  her  steps  made  no  sound.  She  crept  towards  Jim, 
amazed  to  see  him  lying  thus.  She  shook  her  head- 
she  could  not  understand  this  mystery.  She  was  about 
to  move  closer  to  Jim  when  she  heard  some  one  coming. 

Through  the  door  at  the  back  she  could  see  the 
crowds  returning  from  the  departed  train,  while  from 
the  other  direction  came  Cash  Hawkins — she  could 
see  him  clearly.  Closer  came  his  steps.  Quickly  she 
slid  behind  the  door,  and  from  without  peered  into 
the  saloon.  Cash,  aflame  with  passion  and  liquor, 
entered  and  saw  that  Jim  was  alone. 

He  drew  both  his  guns.  With  an  evil  smile  he  ad 
vanced  upon  Jim.  "Damn  you,  I've  got  you!"  he 
hissed;  but  before  he  could  pull  the  trigger  there 
was  a  flash,  a  report,  and  Cash's  hands  were  thrown 
up  in  a  convulsive  movement  while  he  pitched  for 
ward  on  his  face.  Dazed,  bewildered,  Jim  got  to  his 
feet  and  mechanically  pulled  his  gun;  then,  before  he 
was  aware  of  what  had  happened,  he  was  bending 
over  the  body  of  Hawkins. 

196 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

The  report  was  followed  by  an  excitable  rush  of  the 
crowd  into  the  saloon.  The  gamblers  and  cattle 
men  were  headed  by  Bud  Hardy,  the  County  Sheriff. 
Big  Bill,  Andy,  Grouchy,  and  Shorty  went  at  once 
to  Jim,  who  still  stood  close  to  the  prostrate  figure  cf 
Cash  Hawkins.  Pete  quickly  knelt  beside  the  body, 
and  turned  Cash  over  to  examine  him.  Bud  Hardy 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"Hold  on  there!  Nobody  leaves  without  my  per 
mission."  Then  to  Pete,  "How  is  he  ?" 

"He's  cashed  in,  Sheriff.  Plumb  through  the 
heart.  Don't  think  I  ever  see  neater  work."  He 
laid  the  body  on  its  back  and  crossed  the  arms  over 
the  breast. 

Hardy  walked  direct  to  Jim.  "Jim  Carston,  hand 
over  your  gun." 

"And  who  are  you  ?"  Jim  asked,  as  he  looked  at  the 
tall,  bulky  figure  of  Bud  Hardy.  He  had  forgotten 
that  Bill,  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  had  pointed  out  this 
man  to  him,  and  warned  him  of  his  friendship  with 
Cash  Hawkins. 

Gathered  about  Bud  were  Hawkins's  faction,  who 
resented  the  Englishman's  presence  among  them, 
and  with  them  several  who,  only  a  few  hours  ago,  had 
been  cheering  Jim.  Bud  Hardy  answered  his  ques 
tion  with  tolerant  amusement. 

"The  County  Sheriff,"  he  said. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  Jim  advanced  and  handed  his 
gun  to  Bud. 

"Come  on,  you're  my  prisoner."     Even  Bud  felt 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

that  this  was  extremely  difficult.  No  resistance  from 
the  prisoner  —  no  denial!  It  was  unusual.  But  as 
he  stepped  towards  Jim  he  was  stopped  by  Bill. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Bud;  don't  be  in  such  a  ferocious 
hurry.  Where  you  goin'  to  take  him  to  r" 

Bill's  heart  beat  fast,  but  he  gave  no  sign  of  the  fear 
that  filled  him.  He  knew  what  this  might  mean  for 
the  boss.  The  faces  of  the  other  men  of  Jim's  ranch 
grew  gray — they  too  realized,  far  more  than  Jim  did, 
that  it  was  not  the  justice  of  the  law  that  was  to  be 
his,  but — well,  the  crowds  grew  blood-thirsty  some 
times  in  Maverick.  They  had  seen  sights  that  the 
boss  had  not — an  ugly  swinging  vision  passed  before 
their  eyes,  but  no  hint  was  given  of  this  by  the  men. 
Each  one  knew  that  it  would  be  the  most  unwise  move 
they  could  make  for  the  boss's  sake. 

Bill's  big,  slow  voice  was  heard  again  in  its  careless 
drawl.  "Wait  a  minute,  Bud;  don't  be  in  such  a 
ferocious  hurry.  Where  you  goin'  to  take  him  to  ?" 

"County  jail,  of  course,  at  Jansen,"  was  Hardy's 
answer. 

Bill  then  asked,  as  he  surveyed  Hawkins's  gang, 
who  were  whispering  together  with  several  of  the 
hangers-on  of  the  place,  "How  do  you  know  the 
friends  of  the  deceased  won't  take  him  away  from 
you  and  hang  him  to  the  nearest  telegraph-pole,  eh  ?" 

It  was  lightly  said,  and  as  he  said  it  Bill  laid  his 
big  hand  on  Bud's  shoulder.  He  must  conciliate  the 
Sheriff,  gain  time — anything. 

But  Bud  shook  Bill  off.  "Are  you  goin'  to  in- 

108 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

cerfere  with  me  in  the  discharge  of  my  duty  ?"  he 
blustered. 

"Not  a  bit,  Bud,  not  a  bit,"  Bill  said;  then,  with 
sudden  resolve — it  would  mean  his  life,  and  the  lives 
of  others  against  them,  perhaps,  but  he  meant  to  fight 
if  necessary — he  added:  "But  we're  goin'  to  see  that 
you  do  it.  We  ain't  afraid  of  a  trial  and  a  jury." 
He  took  the  crowd  into  his  confidence.  "There  isn't 
a  jury  in  the  State  that  wouldn't  present  the  prisoner 
with  a  vote  of  thanks  and  a  silver  service  for  gettin* 
rid  of  Cash  Hawkins." 

He  turned  to  Bud  with  his  men  about  him. 
"Who's  goin'  to  help  you  take  him  seventy-five  miles 
to  jail?"  he  demanded.  "Will  you  swear  us  in?" 

But  Bud  only  answered,  "You  can't  intimidate 
me,  Bill." 

"As  defunct  has  a  gun  in  each  hand  it's  a  plain  case 
of  self-defence,  anyway."  Bill  pointed  to  the  two 
revolvers  still  clutched  in  the  dead  man's  stiffening 
hands. 

"I  don't  stand  for  this,"  thundered  Bud.  "Clear 
the  room." 

He  had  been  rather  a  friend  of  Big  Bill's — most  of 
them  were  in  Maverick — so  he  had  listened  to  him 
longer  than  he  would  have  to  any  of  the  other  men, 
but  now  he  was  through  with  his  arguments,  he  must 
assert  his  authority. 

"Clear  the  room;  this  prisoner  goes  with  me." 

There  was  a  movement  from  the  crowd.  Bill 
looked  appealingly  at  Jim.  Why  would  not  the  boss 

X4  199 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

speak  ?  Just  as  the  crowds  had  reached  the  doors  Jim 
said  to  Bud,  who  was  advancing  to  formally  arrest  him: 

"Wait  a  minute.  Take  the  trouble  to  examine  my 
gun." 

Bud  lifted  Jim's  gun  and  looked  at  it  closely. 
"Well?"  he  asked. 

"You  see  it  hasn't  been  discharged." 

Bud  quickly  verified  the  fact  that  the  gun  was 
completely  loaded.  He  paused  a  moment  irresolute. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  suspicion,  he  said: 

k<  You've  had  time  to  reload  it." 

The  men  were  eagerly  watching  the  scene  between 
the  two  men. 

"Smell  it,"  Jim  said,  quietly.  "I  haven't  had  time 
to  clean  it." 

"Ah!"  Bill  breathed.  It  was  like  Jim  to  play  the 
trump  card. 

Bud  Hardy  lifted  the  revolver  to  his  nose.  It  was 
as  clean  and  fresh -smelling  as  a  bit  of  cold  steel. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  it  had  not  been 
used,  and  Jim  had  all  these  men  as  witnesses  to  prove 
it.  It  would  be  useless  to  try  to  make  a  case  of  this. 
Bud  knew  when  he  was  beaten.  He  took  the  re 
volver  and  handed  it  to  Jim. 

"Well,  who  did  it,  then?"  He  glanced  at  Jim's 
men.  "Would  you's  all  oblige  me  by  giving  me  a 
sniff  of  your  guns  ?" 

The  reliei  was  so  great  that  the  men  hysterically 
crowded  Bud,  and  almost  as  one  man  they  thrust 
their  revolvers  into  Bud's  face. 

200 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Here's  my  smoke,"  said  one. 

Bud  drew  back.  "One  at  a  time — one  at  a  time/5 
he  gasped — "if  you  please." 

Then  one  by  one  the  men  filed  past  him  as  each 
held  his  revolver  to  Bud's  nose. 

"Here's  my  smoke -machine,"  Bill  said.  It  was 
passed  by  Bud  without  a  word. 

"Und  mine,"  said  Andy. 

Grouchy  jerked  his  into  Bud's  face  with  the  words, 
"Here's  mine,  and  not  a  notch  on  it."  And  Bud 
could  not  deny  the  truth  of  the  assertion. 

All  that  Shorty  nervously  demanded  was,  "How's 
that  ?"  as  he  jerked  the  revolver  into  Bud's  face. 

In  Maverick  this  was  evidence  enough  for  Bud — 
evidence  that  so  far  all  were  free  to  go. 

"Why  didn't  you's  all  say  so  before?"  he  growled, 
annoyed  at  the  turn  affairs  had  taken.  Then  he  saw 
the  expression  on  their  faces,  laughter  and  glee  as  they 
crowded  around  Jim;  when  they  looked  at  him, 
tolerant  amusement.  The  smelling  of  the  smoke- 
machines  they  regarded  as  a  fine  new  move  on  their 
part. 

"Damn  it,"  Bud  thundered.  " You've  been  astring- 
in'  me  while  the  guilty  man's  escaped;  but  I'll  git  him 
-I'll  git  him  yet." 

Jim  saved!  It  was  all  that  the  boys  wanted.  With 
a  whoop -la,  they  tore  after  Bud.  Down  the  plat 
form  they  fled,  all  in  excitement  with  the  new  sensa 
tion  of  the  moment  —  the  hunt  with  Bud  for  the 
guilty  man. 

20 1 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Near  the  table  lay  a  gray  glove.  Jim  stooped  and 
picked  it  up,  and  put  it  quietly  to  his  lips.  Bill,  who 
had  lingered  near  the  door,  suddenly  turned  and  came 
back  to  Jim  and  put  his  arm  about  him. 

t(  You  just  escaped  lynchin',  Jim."  And  Jim  knew 
that  Bill  spoke  the  truth. 

He  held  the  glove  folded  close  in  his  hand  as  he 
answered,  "Yes,  I'm  almost  sorry." 

Bill's  face  became  grave.  What  did  the  boss  mean  ? 
Was  the  game  too  hard  for  him  ?  Was  he  afraid  he 
would  lose  on  the  ranch  deal  ?  He  patted  him  ten 
derly,  almost  like  a  mother  humoring  a  wayward 
child,  without  saying  a  word.  Jim  sank  into  a  chair. 
Bill  understood — the  boss  would  like  to  be  alone,  so 
he  sauntered  up  to  the  back  and  joined  Nick,  In  his 
heart  there  was  but  one  thought:  Jim  should  see  how 
well  they  would  all  serve  him.  He  swore  a  mighty 
oath  that  he  would  see  the  others  did  so,  too. 

Left  alone,  Jim  sat  staring  straight  ahead  of  him. 
Suddenly  he  realized  that  the  body  of  Cash  Hawkins 
was  still  lying  there.  He  shuddered  at  the  cruel  for- 
getfulness  of  the  men.  He  leaned  forward  and  spoke 
his  thoughts  aloud: 

"Who  killed  Cash  Hawkins?" 

He  felt  a  sudden  touch  on  his  hand;  he  turned; 
there,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  was  Nat-u-ritch,  who  had 
entered  unobserved  and  crept  beside  him.  As  he 
looked  at  her  she  drew  herself  up  nearer  to  him, 
and,  leaning  her  chin  on  her  hand,  said: 

"Me  kill  urn." 

202 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim's  only  answer  was  to  place  his  hand  over  her 
face  while  he  hurriedly  looked  about  the  saloon. 
No  one  could  have  heard  her.  He  drew  her  to  her 
feet  and  motioned  her  to  go,  saying  that  he  would 
follow  shortly. 

That  night  Jim  learned  the  truth,  and  his  friend 
ship  with  Nat-u-ritch  began. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

A?TER  this  Jim  often  met  Nat-u-ritch.  On  his 
trail  across  the  country  he  would  see  her  on  her 
little  pony  galloping  after  him.  Sometimes  she 
would  join  him  and  silently  accompany  him  on  his 
search  for  the  cattle  that  had  strayed  beyond  the 
range. 

Nat-u-ritch's  life  with  her  father,  Tabywana,  was 
passed  in  days  of  uneventful  placidness.  Since  the 
death  of  Cash  Hawkins  the  Chief  had  given  her  no 
cause  for  anxiety.  Concerning  the  murder,  neither 
she  nor  her  father  spoke.  Tabywana  admired  Jim 
Carston;  he  seemed  to  realize  instinctively  what  Jim 
had  saved  him  from  that  day  at  the  saloon,  and 
his  unspoken  devotion,  sincere  and  steadfast,  often 
caused  him  to  serve  Jim  without  any  one's  knowledge. 

Sometimes  when  Nat-u-ritch  returned  from  a  long 
day's  ride  her  father  would  scrutinize  her,  and  as  he 
read  in  her  the  call  of  her  nature  for  the  Englishman, 
a  curious  smile  would  light  up  his  face  in  sympathy 
with  her.  He  saw  the  unmoved  impassiveness  that 
she  showed  to  all  the  young  bucks  that  sought  her, 
and  without  protest  let  her  go  her  way,  and  her  trail 
always  led  towards  Carston's  ranch. 

204 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

Winter  came  with  its  treacherous  winds,  and  Car- 
ston's  ranch  was  more  desolate.  Of  Nat-u-ritch's 
unspoken  devotion  to  him  there  was  no  doubt  in  Jim's 
mind,  and  the  temptation  to  take  her  proffered  com 
panionship  into  his  lonely  life  rose  strong  within  him. 

After  Cash  Hawkins's  death,  Jim,  had  he  cared  for 
the  life,  might  have  been  a  leader  in  the  Long  Horn 
saloon,  but  a  bar-room  hero  was  not  the  role  that  he 
wished  to  play.  His  own  men — Grouchy,  Andy,  and 
Shorty — openly  expressed  their  disappointment  to  Big 
Bill  at  the  boss's  indifference  to  the  position  he  might 
exert  as  a  power  in  Maverick,  and  even  Big  Bill  only 
vaguely  understood  Jim's  unappreciative  attitude.  He 
often  watched  Jim  smoking  his  pipe  and  peering  into 
the  heart  of  the  embers  that  glowed  on  the  hearth,  and 
as  he  saw  the  careworn  face  Bill's  great  heart  ached 
with  sympathy  for  him.  But  Jim,  as  he  realized  the 
difficulties  of  the  fight  in  which  he  was  involved,  only 
clinched  his  fists  the  tighter  and  accomplished  the 
work  of  three  men  in  his  day's  toil. 

At  these  times  the  physical  drain  on  him  was  so 
great  that  there  was  no  opportunity  left  in  which  to 
realize  the  biting  ache  of  his  loneliness.  So  one 
bleak  day  succeeded  another,  with  the  slim,  mute 
figure  of  the  Indian  girl  ever  crossing  his  path. 

The  early  spring  brought  with  it  a  sudden  melting 
of  the  snow-capped  hills  and  the  ice-covered  pools. 
The  cattle  grew  more  troublesome.  They  seemed 
harder  to  control,  or  else  the  boys  were  more  in 
different  to  their  disappearance.  Big  Bill  had  gone 

205 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

away  on  a  deal  for  new  cattle,  so  Jim's  energies  were 
redoubled. 

One  day  as  he  rode  across  the  plains  searching  for 
a  lost  herd  that  had  wandered  towards  Jackson's 
Hole,  the  longing  that  the  awakening  spring  had 
brought  with  it  grew  more  insistent.  Life  surely 
held  for  him  possibilities  greater  than  this,  he  told 
himself.  He  resolved,  on  Bill's  return,  to  arrange  with 
him  to  sell  the  place.  He  could  not  conquer  the 
craving  for  the  old  haunts  of  civilization  that  took 
possession  of  him.  He  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
endless  stretch  of  prairie.  Lost  in  his  dream  to  escape 
from  his  lonely  life  and  to  take  part  again  in  the  affairs 
of  men  of  his  own  class,  he  failed  to  notice  the  small 
pony  that  followed  him  carrying  Nat-u-ritch. 

On  he  went,  so  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  that  he 
did  not  notice  how  close  he  was  to  Jackson's  Hole. 
Big  Bill  long  ago  had  warned  him  of  the  treacherous 
ridge  that  lay  near  the  gulley,  but  Jim  had  forgotten 
Bill's  words.  Unconscious  of  the  danger  ahead,  he 
galloped  towards  the  edge  of  the  broken  precipice. 
In  the  distance  he  espied  the  marks  of  a  herd  of  cattle 
that  had  passed  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  ridge. 
Jim  urged  his  horse  forward  and  started  to  jump  the 
small,  deceptive  span  that  covered  the  hole.  A  sharp 
cry  came  from  Nat-u-ritch,  who  had  quickly  gained 
ground  on  him  as  she  saw  his  intention.  But  Jim, 
unheeding,  gave  a  sharp  command  to  his  horse  and 
urged  him  over.  There  was  a  sudden  breaking  of 
ground;  then  a  whirling,  dazed  moment  through 

206 


THE  SQUAW  MAN 

which  flashed  an  eternity  of  thought,  and  Nat-u-ritch 
stood  alone,  clinging  to  her  pony  as  she  peered  over 
into  the  dark  pool  of  broken  ice  around  which  stretched 
chasms  of  impenetrable  blackness. 

Two  weeks  later  Jim  opened  his  eyes  to  conscious 
ness  in  Nat-u-ritch's  wickyup.  No  man  of  those 
summoned  by  Nat-u-ritch  to  help  had  dared  venture 
into  the  dreaded  abyss,  so  Jim  had  been  abandoned  as 
dead.  But  the  depth  of  her  love  gave  the  Indian 
girl  the  strength  to  accomplish  his  rescue.  Jealous 
of  her  treasure,  she  dragged  the  unconscious  body 
to  her  own  village,  \vhich  was  nearer  than  Jim's 
ranch. 

Then  followed  an  illness  from  the  long  exposure 
in  the  gulley.  Big  Bill  returned,  only  to  find  the 
ranch  without  its  master,  while  Jim  lay  in  the 
squaw's  wickyup,  with  the  Indian  girl  fighting  to 
save  his  life,  her  love  and  loyalty  making  her  his 
abject  slave. 

Weeks  followed,  and  one  day  Big  Bill  and  the  boys 
brought  the  boss  home.  Then  came  a  relapse,  and 
again  Nat-u-ritch's  devotion  and  courage  gave  him 
back  his  life.  This  time  Bill  watched  a  double  fight: 
the  fight  on  the  part  of  the  woman  to  save  the  man 
so  that  she  might  win  him  for  herself,  and  on  Jim's 
part  an  effort  to  resist  the  mute  surrender  of  the 
woman. 

Without  the  boss's  supervision  the  ranch  had  de 
teriorated,  and  Jim's  affairs  had  become  so  involved 

207 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

that  he  recovered  only  to  find  that  all  thought  of 
abandoning  the  place  was  now  impossible.  His 
dream  of  escape  was  now  a  hope  of  the  past.  And 
so  life  began  afresh  for  him  on  the  plains. 

Jim  stood  outside  of  the  window  of  an  adobe  hut. 
From  within  he  could  hear  the  low  moans  of  a  woman 
and  now  and  then  the  wail  of  a  child.  He  was  alone, 
save  for  the  missionary  who  had  married  him  a  few 
months  before  to  Nat-u-ritch,  and  who  was  now 
inside  helping  the  sick  woman.  Big  Bill  had  gone 
to  fetch  an  old  squaw  who  had  promised  to  come  to 
the  ranch.  As  Jim  leaned  against  the  post  of  the 
porch  he  was  stirred  by  a  multitude  of  emotions. 
The  wails  from  within  grew  louder  and  more  fretful. 
As  he  watched  the  heavens,  ablaze  with  a  thousand 
eyes,  he  wondered  why  the  old  woman  had  failed  to 
come  in  time.  He  hardly  realized  what  the  past  hour 
had  meant  to  him.  A  child  had  been  given  to  him! 
Something  of  the  wonder  of  the  eternal  mystery  was 
numbing  his  spirit.  The  sick  woman's  moans  grew 
fainter,  only  the  cry  of  the  babe  persistently  reached 
him. 

At  last  the  missionary  came  to  him:  Nat-u-ritch 
was  asleep;  he  would  go,  he  explained,  and  hurry 
along  the  Indian  woman  who  was  coming  with  Big 
Bill  to  the  ranch.  The  cry  of  the  child  seemed  to 
become  more  pitiful.  Jim  tiptoed  to  the  door  of  the 
inner  room.  On  the  cot  lay  Nat-u-ritch.  He  softly 
crossed  to  the  small  bundle  of  life  rolled  in  the  blanket 

208 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

and  lifted  it  in  his  arms.  The  warm,  appealing  little 
body  lay  limp  against  him.  He  began  swaying  to 
and  fro  until  the  cry  grew  fainter.  Soon  the  babe 
slept;  but  Jim  still  stood  rocking  his  son  in  his  strong 
arms. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ONE  year  slipped  into  another,  until  five  had 
passed  since  the  birth  of  Jim's  son  Hal.  The 
cattle  did  well  and  ill  by  turns,  but  mostly  ill.  The 
trusts  were  making  their  iron  paws  felt  by  the  grasp 
in  which  they  held  the  ranchmen — absolutely  dictat 
ing  their  terms.  A  dry  season  often  further  augmented 
the  disaster  of  Jim's  ventures.  Without  repining  he 
fought  on,  with  only  great-hearted  Bill's  advice  and 
confidence  to  help  him  through  the  wearing  time. 

Green  River,  which  had  been  the  excuse  for  Car- 
ston's  ranch,  was  in  low  spirits  this  sizzling  summer 
afternoon.  Throughout  the  long  day  the  alkali 
plains  had  crackled  under  the  withering  sun,  until  the 
entire  place  lay  covered  with  a  heavy  powder  of  dust. 
Even  the  straggling  scrub-oak  and  green  sage-brush 
seemed  to  be  only  nature's  imitation  of  asbestos,  so 
persistently  were  they  radiating  the  heat  of  the  past 
week.  The  adobe  stable  glared  at  the  low  adobe 
dwelling  opposite.  Neither  gave  evidence  of  any  life 
within.  A  decrepit  wagon  with  its  tongue  lolling  out 
lay  like  a  tired  dog  before  the  stable;  beside  it  was 
heaped  the  dusty  double  harness  with  its  primitive 
mending  of  rope  and  buckskin,  while  near  the  house 

210 


THE  SQUAW  MAN 

a  disordered  hummock  of  pack-saddles  and  camp 
outfits  further  increased  the  disorder  of  the  place. 
An  unsteady  bench,  holding  a  tin  basin,  a  dipper,  and 
a  bucket  of  water,  and  a  solitary  towel  on  a  nail  near 
by,  were  the  sole  tributes  to  civilization. 

Big  Bill,  whose  eyes  were  accustomed  to  the  place, 
seemed  indifferent  to  the  unspeakable  desolation  of 
the  ranch.  He  sat  on  a  log  that  lay  before  the  door 
of  the  hut  and  was  used  for  social  intercourse  or 
wood-splitting.  He  was  intent  on  braiding  strands 
of  buckskin,  the  ends  of  which  were  held  by  little 
Hal,  who  had  grown  into  a  winsome  little  lad  and 
was  the  pet  of  all  the  men  and  his  father's  constant 
companion. 

Across  the  river,  towards  the  west,  the  same  desola 
tion  met  the  eye.  Even  the  sage-brush  and  scrub- 
oak  seemed  to  have  abandoned  life  in  despair,  and 
the  Bad  Lands  stretched  lifeless  to  the  foot-hills  of 
the  snow-capped  Uinta  peaks.  Even  more  poignant 
than  the  cruel  ugliness  of  the  place  was  the  feeling 
that  the  great  gaunt  bird  of  failure  brooded  over  the 
entire  ranch. 

As  Bill  clumsily  twisted  the  braid  the  child  eagerly 
watched  him. 

"  Is  it  for  me,  sure,  Bill  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  slid  close 
to  the  big  fellow. 

"Yes,  old  man,"  Bill  answered,  as  he  stooped  to  pat 
the  dark  head.  "This  is  going  to  be  for  you,  and 
there  ain't  any  old  cow-puncher  can  beat  Bill  making 
a  quirt.  No,  sirree." 

211 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

While  he  talked  lightly  to  the  child  his  mind  was 
busy  with  unpleasant  thoughts.  The  boys  were  about 
to  strike  for  their  money.  Their  wages  had  been  over 
due  for  some  time,  and  the  boss,  finally  driven  to  the 
wall  by  disease  among  the  cattle,  had  been  unable  to 
satisfy  them.  So  far  there  had  been  no  outbreak, 
but  Bill  expected  it  every  moment. 

For  days  Jim  had  hardly  spoken.  That  there  was 
some  important  decision  about  to  be  made  by  him, 
Bill  guessed.  He  sat  and  played  with  the  child,  but 
in  reality  this  was  only  a  ruse  by  which  he  might  keep 
close  to  the  place  and  await  developments.  From 
down  the  road  he  could  hear  the  men  coming  and 
calling  to  him,  but  he  gave  no  sign.  He  went 
on  knotting  the  strands,  and  steadied  little  Hal's 
hands  when  the  child  grew  tired  of  holding  the 
quirt. 

Shorty  was  the  first  to  arrive,  carrying  his  Mexican 
saddle  and  lariat.  On  his  diminutive  face  was  stamp 
ed  an  aggressive  pugnacity.  He  was  followed  by 
Andy;  Grouchy  slouched  in  last,  whittling  at  a  piece 
of  wood.  As  Bill  surveyed  them  he  knew  that  they 
had  been  talking  things  over  and  had  arrived  at  some 
conclusion.  They  had  been  good  workers  in  their 
time  with  him,  and  he  knew  even  now,  at  heart,  that 
they  were  not  bad,  but  that  life  had  tried  them 
severely  with  its  failures  and  disappointments.  He 
waited  for  them  to  speak.  There  was  a  moment's  si 
lence,  then  Shorty,  as  he  flung  himself  down  on  the 
bench,  said: 

212 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Say,  Bill,  I  s'pose  you  know  the  boys  is  gettin' 
nervous  'bout  their  money,  don't  you  ?" 

Bill  just  looked  up,  and  then  went  on  with  his  work 
as  he  answered,  "  To-morrow's  pay-day."  He  would 
not  anticipate  them  in  their  rebellion;  he  would  make 
it  hard  for  them  to  declare  themselves. 

"That's  what,"  Shorty  went  on. 

"Well,  it's  time  to  get  nervous  day  after  to-morrow.'5 
And  still  Bill  braided  the  leather. 

"They're  goin'  to  make  trouble  if  they  don't  git 
it."  Shorty  acted  as  spokesman.  Grouchy  and  Andy 
only  nodded  their  heads  ;n  approval  of  their  leader's 
words. 

Bill  stopped  his  work  as  he  picked  Hal  up  in  his 
arms.  "Are  they?"  he  said.  "Well,  I  reckon  Jim 
Carston  and  me  can  handle  that  bunch."  He  spoke 
as  though  the  others  were  not  present. 

"Maybe  you  kin;  maybe  you  kin,"  Shorty  retorted, 
as  he  flung  the  saddle  against  the  walls  of  the  cabin. 

"Und  say,  Bill — und  say — to-morrow's  pay-day." 
Andy's  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke.  He  was  a  gen 
tle-mannered  German,  and  the  sight  of  Hal  was  not 
a  good  incentive  for  him  to  fight  against  the  boss. 

Hal  began  to  listen  and  to  look  from  one  to  the 
other.  Bill  noticed  the  child's  look  of  inquiry  and 
set  him  on  the  ground. 

"Son,  you  run  in  and  help  your  mother  with  the 
milking."  He  slapped  his  hands  together  as  though 
a  great  joy  were  in  store  for  the  child,  who  laughed 
with  glee  as  he  hurried  across  to  the  stable. 

213 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

The  men  waited  for  Bill  to  say  something,  but  he 
only  stood  twisting  a  straw  about  in  his  mouth  and 
pulling  his  hat-brim. 

Again  Andy's  courage  rose  and  he  walked  close  to 
Bill.  "To-morrow's  pay-day,  Bill— eh  ?" 

"Is  it?  Do  tell!  Ain't  you  a  discoverer!  Say, 
Andy,  you're  neglectin'  the  north  pole  a  little." 

This  time  it  was  Grouchy  who  answered,  "Well, 
I  want  mine,"  and  he  viciously  dug  his  knife  into  the 
hitching-post. 

Bill  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Surely  they 
would  be  reasonable;  he  would  try  them. 

"Boys,  it's  seven  years  since  the  boss  bought  this 
ranch,  and  he's  had  an  up-hill  fight.  Every  one's 
done  him.  He  bought  when  cattle  was  higher  than 
they've  ever  been  since,  and  you  know  what  last 
winter  did  for  us;  but  he  'ain't  ever  hollered,  and  the 
top  wages  he  paid  you  at  the  start  he's  been  a-payin' 
you  ever  since." 

"Oh,  what's  the  use!"  Shorty  interrupted.  "The 
money  is  owed  us.  The  only  question  is,  do  we  git 
it?"  ' 

Backed  up  by  Shorty,  Grouchy  began  again,  "Well, 
I  want  mine." 

Only  gentle  Andy  was  silent.  He  could  hear  little 
Hal  laughing  as  he  played  in  the  cow-shed. 

Bill  dropped  his  persuasive  tone  as  he  wheeled 
around  on  the  men  and  in  a  sudden  blaze  said: 

"Well,  you  know  Carston  and  you  know  me.  If 
you're  lookin'  for  trouble,  we  won't  see  you  go  away 

214 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

disappointed."  He  squared  his  shoulders  as  he 
spoke.  "Oh,  shucks!"  He  looked  at  the  boys  again. 
"It's  no  use,"  he  began,  more  good-naturedly.  "It's 
the  business  that's  no  good.  Nothin'  in  it.  The 
packers  has  got  us  skinned  to  death.  They  pay  us 
what  they  like  for  cattle,  and  charge  the  public  what 
they  like  for  beef.  Hell!"  he  grunted,  as  he  turned  on 
his  heel.  "I'm  goin'  into  the  ministry." 

This  time  Grouchy's  "Well,  I  want  mine"  was  ex 
tremely  faint. 

Before  the  others  could  speak  again  Bill  quickly 
called,  "Here's  the  boss  now,"  and  signalled  the  men 
to  be  silent. 

They  were  touched  by  Jim's  haggard  face.  They 
had  not  seen  the  boss  for  several  days;  he  had  been 
busy  with  accounts,  Bill  had  told  them.  They  began 
shuffling  their  feet  as  though  about  to  leave.  Each 
one  thought  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  wait  until 
the  next  day.  Shorty  signalled  them  to  come  on,  but 
Jim  stopped  them. 

"Boys,  I  hear  you're  getting  anxious  about  your 
pay.  I  don't  blame  you.  My  affairs  are  in  a  bad 
way,  but  I  don't  expect  any  one  to  share  my  bad  luck. 
You've  earned  your  money.  I'll  see  that  you  get  it." 

As  Jim  spoke  he  drew  from  his  pocket  several  small 
boxes  and  from  his  belt  an  old  wallet.  "I  have  some 
useless  old  trinkets  here  that  have  been  knocking 
around  in  my  trunk  for  years.  If  you  will  take  them 
to  town,  where  people  wear  such  things,  you  will  get 
enough  for  them  to  wipe  out  my  account  and  some- 
is  215 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

thing  to  boot  for  long  service  and  good-will."  Andy's 
sniffles  were  the  only  answer  that  followed.  Jim 
turned  to  him,  "Andy — " 

But  Andy  refused  the  package.  "Und  say,  boss. 
Und  say,  I  ain't  kickin'.  Und  say,  I  can  trust  you." 

Jim  only  tossed  the  box  into  his  hands.  "Shorty," 
he  said,  as  he  slapped  the  wallet  across  the  little 
fellow's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  not,"  Shorty  shamefacedly  answered. 
"Gee,  but  this  is  tough  work,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Jim  smiled.  "You  must  take  it,  please.  The  man 
who  refuses  throws  suspicion  on  the  value  of  my  junk. 
You  won't  do  that,  I'm  sure."  And  the  wallet  slid 
into  Shorty's  hand. 

"Grouchy,  you  can  have  my  repeating  rifle,"  he 
added.  "And  now,  good-night.  I'll  see  you  to 
morrow  for  the  last  time." 

So  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  their  association  with 
the  boss.  Would  he  try  to  shoulder  the  work  of  the 
place  without  them  ?  A  second's  reflection  told  them 
that  this  would  be  impossible.  It  was  to  be  really  the 
end  of  Carston's  ranch.  The  three  men  stood  staring 
at  Jim.  Bill,  at  the  back  of  the  hut,  as  he  heard  the 
words,  sank  down  on  a  rough  bench.  This  was  what 
had  come  of  the  days  of  silence  on  Jim's  part;  in  each 
man's  heart  there  was  an  unspeakable  emotion  at  the 
dissolution  of  their  companionship. 

Suddenly  down  the  road  they  heard  the  clatter  of 
horses.  Then  the  whoop-la  of  a  crowd  of  men,  and 
a  stentorian  voice  called: 

216 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Hello,  any  one  to  home  at  Carston's  ranch  r" 

Shorty  and  Andy  hurried  to  meet  the  new-comers. 
It  was  Bud  Hardy,  the  Sheriff,  with  a  posse  of  men. 
In  they  rushed,  swarming  all  over  the  place,  and 
carrying  with  them  the  smell  of  alkali  and  the  heat  of 
the  plains.  Dripping  with  perspiration,  stained  and 
worn  with  their  travel,  they  seemed  like  part  of  the 
desert,  so  covered  were  they  with  a  heavy  caking  of 
dust.  One  felt  the  parched  fever  of  their  thirst  as 
they  stood  asking  hospitality  of  the  ranch.  Jim  ad 
vanced  to  meet  them. 

"Hello,  folks,"  Bud  called,  as  the  men  of  the  ranch 
welcomed  his  men.  Then  he  came  towards  Jim,  who 
shook  hands  with  him. 

"Why,  how  are  you,  Sheriff?" 

Since  the  day  at  Maverick,  when  the  Sheriff  had 
tried  to  arrest  him,  Jim  had  often  seen  Bud.  He  was 
never  sure  of  the  honesty  of  the  man's  intentions.  He 
and  Big  Bill  had  often  discussed  Bud's  unfitness  for 
the  power  he  held  in  the  place,  but  he  gave  no  sign  of 
this  in  his  greeting. 

Bud's  great  frame  towered  above  the  others.  He 
seemed  more  effusive  and  excited  than  the  occasion 
warranted,  and  Big  Bill's  brows  rose  questioningly 
as  he  saw  the  demonstrative  way  in  which  he  greeted 
Jim. 

"  Howdy,  Mr.  Carston  —  howdy  ?  Knowin'  the 
hospitality  of  this  here  outfit,  we  most  killed  ourselves 
to  git  here,  to  say  nothin'  of  the  horses.  We  left  them 
leanin'  up  against  the  corral,  the  worst  done  up 

217 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

cayuses."  Then  directly  in  appeal  to  Jim,  he  said, 
"We  simply  got  to  stay  here  to-night,  Mr.  Carston." 

With  a  cordial  gesture  of  invitation,  Jim  said, 
"You  and  the  boys  are  welcome,  Sheriff,  and  what 
we  lack  in  grub  and  accommodations  we'll  hope  to 
make  up  to  you  in  good-will." 

As  Jim  spoke,  Bud  quickly  glanced  in  triumph  at 
Clarke,  a  prominent  worker  in  his  posse.  The  pale 
face  of  Clarke  gave  back  a  glance  of  comprehension 
as  he  lowered  his  white-lashed  eyelids  over  his  bulging 
eyes.  All  this  was  observed  by  Bill,  who  sauntered 
towards  the  Sheriff  as  Bud  answered  Jim. 

"What's  good  enough  for  you  all  is  good  enough 
for  us,  you  bet,"  and  he  wrung  Jim's  hand  again. 
"Why,  hello!"  he  finished,  as  he  saw  Bill  and  turned 
to  greet  him. 

"Any  news?"  Bill  laconically  asked,  as  he  studied 
Bud  and  his  men. 

"Nothin*  of  any  consequence,"  said  Bud.  "We 
just  had  a  little  fracas  down  at  the  agency.  Total 
result,  one  Injin  killed." 

A  shout  of  approval  rose  from  the  boys,  but  Clarke 
broke  in  with  another  guffaw.  "And  the  joke  of  it 
is,  Bud  killed  the  wrong  man." 

"But  nothin'  to  it.  All  in  a  day's  work,"  Bud 
laughingly  explained. 

"You  look  tired,  Sheriff,"  Jim  said.  "The  boys 
will  take  you  to  their  quarters.  Shorty,  you  and  the 
others  make  the  Sheriff  and  his  people  feel  at  home." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  approval.  "Come  on," 

218 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

said  Shorty,  and  the  men  started  for  their  quarters. 
Shorty,  who  loved  bossing  an  affair  almost  better  than 
teasing,  swept  them  all  on  before  him.  Then  he  linked 
his  arm  through  Bud's. 

"Say,  Bud,  I'll  bet  you  a  saddle  to  a  shoe-string 
you  never  roped  the  man  who  killed  Cash  Hawkins 
at  Maverick." 

Clarke,  who  seemed  deliberately  to  keep  near  Bud, 
gave  an  involuntary  look  of  surprise  at  the  Sheriff, 
but  the  flash  of  anger  on  Bud's  blowsed,  crimson  face 
quickly  cowed  him. 

"Oh,"  Bud  said,  lightly,  "that  was  years  and 
years  ago,  Shorty,"  and  with  his  arm  about  him  he 
followed  the  men  towards  their  quarters. 

Clarke  lingered  to  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  hut 
and  stables,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  he  quickly 
realized  that  Bill  was  intently  watching  him. 

Jim  turned  to  go  to  the  house — then  paused.  He 
could  see  Bill  against  the  hitching-post  tearing  a  straw 
into  wisps  that  fluttered  and  fell  lifeless  to  the  ground. 
There  was  not  enough  breeze  to  carry  even  a  strand 
away.  He  must  speak  to  Bill,  but  how  could  he  ex 
press  anything  of  the  desolation  he  felt  at  this  parting 
of  their  ways. 

"Bill,"  he  began,  in  a  low  voice — and  Bill,  who 
divined  the  words  that  were  about  to  follow,  made  no 
answer;  he  only  held  tighter  to  the  post.  He  could 
hardly  see  the  boss;  a  blur  swept  before  his  eyes.  He 
made  no  effort  to  move;  he  felt  he  could  not. 

"Bill,"  said  Jim  again,  as  he  came  to  him,  "you 

219 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

must  get  out  and  look  for  another  job."  Jim  clinched 
his  hands  tight  as  he  added,  "I'll  be  sorry  to  lose  you, 
old  man." 

"I  know  you  will,"  Bill  huskily  answered,  as  he  kept 
his  eyes  lowered  to  the  ground.  Then,  almost  in  a 
growl,  he  questioned,  "And  what  are  you  going  to 
do,  boss  ?" 

The  despair  of  a  broken  man's  life  answered  Bill  as 
Jim  said,  in  a  level,  flat  tone,  "Sell  out — move  on — 
begin  all  over  again — somewhere."  Then  with  the 
indomitable  will  that  was  ever  a  part  of  him,  he  added, 
more  hopefully,  "There  must  be  a  place  for  me 
somewhere."  Mastering  himself,  he  added,  as  he  took 
Bill's  knotted  hand  in  his,  "I  won't  offer  to  pay  you, 
Bill." 

And  Bill,  who  knew  by  this  fineness  of  perception  on 
Jim's  part  why  he  loved  the  boss,  answered,  "You 
better  not,"  and  wrung  Jim's  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"Not  now,"  Jim  said,  with  the  old  hope  again  rising 
to  encourage  him,  that  later  he  might  be  able  to  help 
Bill.  "In  my  life  I've  had  one  friend  and  only  one." 
He  laid  his  hands  on  Bill's  shoulders  and  looked 
straight  in  his  eyes. 

But  Bill  could  not  stand  the  strain  of  it  any  longer. 
"You  make  me  tired,"  he  gulped,  and  Jim  smiled. 

"Why  did  you  pay  those  cayotes  three  or  four  times 
what  you  owe  'em  ?"  Bill  scolded,  gruffly,  but  kindly. 
"It's  wicked,  Jim.  You're  a  sentimental  fool." 

As  though  bestowing  a  final  benediction,  Jim  an 
swered,  "And  you're  another — God  bless  you,"  and 

220 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

then  dropped  on  to  the  log  and  seemed  to  forget  Bill 
and  all  about  him. 

Bill  stood  a  moment,  then  tiptoed  away  while  Jim 
sat  watching  the  afternoon  shadows  beginning  to  creep 
up  towards  the  hut 


CHAPTER  XX 

TOWARDS  noon  the  next  day,  Bud  sought  Jim 
to  ask  further  hospitality.  The  horses  were 
still  in  bad  condition,  he  explained,  and  he  would 
esteem  it  an  invaluable  service  if  he  would  allow  them 
to  remain  another  night  on  the  ranch.  Jim  readily 
acquiesced.  Now  that  he  had  taken  the  final  step 
to  sever  himself  from  the  ranch,  there  v,  ere  many 
details  to  be  personally  directed  and  settled.  Bill  and 
he  were  often  in  conference,  and  the  sale  could  be 
accomplished  within  a  few  days.  While  Bill  worked, 
he  watched  Bud  and  Clarke.  Of  his  suspicion  that 
they  were  trying  to  take  some  unfair  advantage,  he 
did  not  speak.  Only  his  ferret-like  glances  constantly 
followed  them.  And  his  instinctive  distrust  was  further 
aroused  by  a  visit  from  Tabywana. 

As  he  and  Jim  sat  before  the  house,  with  a  list  that 
Jim  was  explaining  to  Bill,  Baco,  the  half-breed  who 
worked  about  the  place,  suddenly  called  in  greeting 
to  Tabywana.  With  his  bonnet  of  gorgeous  feathers 
trailing  down  his  back,  his  body  draped  in  a  blanket, 
and  in  his  hand  the  peace-pipe,  the  Chief  entered. 
"How!"  he  answered,  as  he  passed  Baco.  Both  Bill 
and  Jim  arose. 

222 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Why,  hello  Chief!  Where'd  you  blow  in  from  ?" 
Bill  called. 

Again  Tabywana  answered,  "How!" 

Jim  advanced.  "How!"  he  said.  "The  peace 
chief  never  comes  except  to  do  us  a  favor.  Baco,  ask 
him  what  we  can  do  for  him." 

As  Tabywana  pointed  to  his  pipe  he  spoke  to 
Baco.  "He  says,  'Let  us  sit  down  and  smoke,"1 
interpreted  Baco. 

"Certainly,"  Jim  answered.  His  years  of  living 
among  the  Indians  had  accustomed  him  to  their 
ceremonies,  and  the  four  men  crossed  their  legs  and 
seated  themselves  on  the  ground,  forming  a  half-circle. 
Tabywana  began  filling  and  lighting  his  pipe. 

"Baco,"  Jim  commanded,  "tell  Tabywana  that 
we  are  always  glad  to  meet  him  and  see  him  face  to 
face.  He  is  our  friend." 

Baco  quickly  translated  the  message.  Tabywana 
began  passing  the  pipe  from  Jim  to  Bill.  As  Bill 
pufFed  at  it  he  said  to  Jim,  "Say,  when  the  old  Chief 
gets  as  formal  as  this  it  means  business." 

The  men,  although  eager  to  begin  the  proposed 
conversation,  did  nothing  to  urge  the  Indian  to  declare 
himself.  Both  courteously  awaited  the  Chief's  in 
formation,  although  both  chafed  at  this  delay  in  their 
work.  When  the  pipe  had  been  returned  to  Taby 
wana  he  deliberately  extinguished  the  flame,  and, 
holding  the  pipe  under  his  blanket,  began  monoto 
nously  to  speak  in  his  own  tongue. 

Jim  and  Bill  both  tried  to  follow  the  words,  but 

22} 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

their  knowledge  of  the  language  was  exceedingly 
limited,  so  Baco  translated  for  them.  "He  says  a 
stranger  has  been  asking  for  you  in  the  settlement." 

"What  kind  of  a  stranger?"  Jim  asked,  his  mind 
turning  at  once  to  the  sale  that  was  about  to  be  effect 
ed.  The  Indian  agent  again  interpreted  the  ChiePs 
reply.  "One  who  jumps  up  and  down  in  his  saddle." 

Bill  smiled  as  Jim  answered:  "Oh,  an  English 
man.  What's  his  business  ?" 

"The  Chief  says  he  does  not  know,  but  be  on  your 
guard." 

Bill  and  Jim  exchanged  glances.  Surely  it  was 
not  for  this  that  Tabywana  had  paid  this  formal 
visit.  But  Jim,  who  knew  the  wary,  slow  methods 
of  the  Indians,  and  who  felt  that  something  of  more 
importance  was  coming,  looked  straight  at  Tabywana, 
as  he  asked,  "Is  that  all?" 

Tabywana  understood  more  of  the  language  of  his 
conquerors  than  he  admitted,  and  quickly  answered 
the  question  through  Baco.  "No,  something  else — 
very  important."  Then  Tabywana  himself  added, 
"Bud  Hardy  is  here." 

At  these  words  Bill,  who  had  been  listening  list 
lessly,  turned  sharply  to  watch  the  Indian's  face.  In 
the  crafty,  restrained  expression  he  could  read  the 
effort  at  control  that  the  Chief  was  exercising  as  he 
emitted  the  sentences  Baco  translated  for  him  to 
Jim.  "That  is  bad — very  bad.  Trouble  will  follow. 
He  says  Hardy  has  been  talking  and  drinking  a  great 
deal,  and  has  begun  to  talk  about  the  death  of  Cash 

224 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 
Hawkins,  and  Hardy  will,  he  is  afraid,  soon  arrest 


some  one." 


Jim  did  not  answer.  Tabywana  moved  a  little  so 
that  he  could  watch  Jim.  His  face  wore  an  expression 
of  great  curiosity  as  to  how  his  words  would  be  re 
ceived  by  Jim.  The  Chief  had  never  known  the 
exact  truth  concerning  the  killing  of  Cash  Hawkins, 
but  he  had  often  guessed  that  Nat-u-ritch  and  Jim 
did.  Jim  did  not  answer.  Bill  spoke  to  him  as 
Baco,  having  performed  his  duty,  sank  back  and 
began  playing  with  some  straws. 

"Jim,  the  old  Chief  is  trying  to  tell  you  that  Hardy 
has  been  bragging  that  he  was  going  to  arrest  the 
fellow  that  killed  Cash  Hawkins."  Jim  gave  no  sign 
that  the  news  in  the  least  disturbed  him. 

"Tell  the  old  Chief  it's  the  fire-water  that's  talking." 

Bill  sank  deep  into  a  reverie.  So  Bud  was  up  to 
some  devilment — but  what  ?  Then  he  heard  the  words : 

"The  Chief  says  that  Hardy  is  no  friend  of  yours," 
and  Jim's  quick  reply,  "Tell  the  Chief  I  didn't  kill 
Cash  Hawkins,  so  I'm  not  afraid  of  arrest."  Jim 
smiled  reassuringly  at  the  Chief,  who  constantly 
watched  him.  After  all,  what  could  Bud  do  to  Jim? 
"He's  a  blow-hard,  anyway,"  Bill  muttered. 

Jim  was  about  to  rise  and  end  the  interview  when, 
looking  cautiously  about  him,  Tabywana  began 
speaking  in  a  lower  tone.  Baco  translated  without 
pause  the  thoughts  that  were  troubling  the  Indian. 
"The  Chief  thinks  that  Hardy  thinks  that  maybe 
Nat-u-ritch  killed  Cash  Hawkins." 

225 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim  only  let  slip  the  word  "Nat-u-ritch,"  but  his 
eyes  quickly  sought  the  Indian's,  and  in  them  he  saw 
there  was  fear  for  the  woman.  To  Bill  this  seemed 
nonsense.  There  had  never  been  an  atom  of  sus 
picion  attached  to  Nat-u-ritch,  so  he  lightly  dismissed 
the  idea  with  a  laugh  as  he  said,  "Bud  must  have 
been  unusual  drunk."  Bill  had  never  understood 
the  affair.  He  now  began  to  feel  the  old  suspicion 
creeping  back.  Had  the  boss,  in  self-defence,  done 
the  deed  ?  If  so,  he  must  keep  his  watch  all  the 
closer  on  Bud  and  his  men  to  see  that  they  left  the 
ranch  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Jim  quietly  and  calmly  gave  this  answer  to  the 
Chief: 

"So  Bud  thinks  Nat-u-ritch  killed  Cash.  Why, 
there  isn't  a  scrap  of  evidence  pointing  towards 
Nat-u-ritch.  Ask  him  what  makes  Bud  think  so." 
This  time  Jim  listened  intently  for  the  answer. 

"He  says  he  doesn't  know.  But  that  Bud  Hardy 
is  bad  medicine,  and  he  wants  you  to  make  Bud 
Hardy  move  on  to  the  next  ranch." 

Bill  grunted  his  approval  at  this. 

"That  is  impossible.  The  Chief  knows  that  we 
cannot  refuse  shelter  to  the  white  man." 

Bill  this  time  upheld  Jim's  attitude  in  maintaining 
the  laws  of  the  place  as  he  added,  "Even  though  he 
is  a  bad  man." 

Tabywana  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  There 
was  a  piteous  look  of  baffled  hope  on  his  face.  In  his 
heart  he  was  wishing  that  they  would  not  take  his 

226 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

words  of  wisdom  so  lightly,  but  it  was  difficult  to  ex 
plain  more  to  them.  Despairingly  he  offered  further 
advice,  and  Baco  repeated  it  for  him,  but  Jim  an 
swered  : 

"The  Chief  knows  that  the  rights  of  hospitality  are 
sacred.  Besides,  I  do  not  anticipate  any  trouble." 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  would  be  extremely  wary 
of  Bud  Hardy,  but  he  felt  no  great  concern.  The 
affair  had  passed  for  five  years,  and  it  was  simply  some 
drunken  bravado  on  the  Sheriff's  part  that  had  fright 
ened  the  old  Chief.  He  laid  his  hands  on  Tabywana's 
shoulders.  For  Nat-u-ritch's  father  he  had  a  tender 
regard,  and  the  generous  tolerance  he  had  for,  and  the 
defence  he  constantly  made  of,  the  red  man's  rights, 
caused  Tabywana  to  lay  aside  all  cunning  in  his  deal 
ings  with  Jim,  and  to  completely  surrender  his  af 
fections  to  him  and  the  tiny  child. 

"Baco,  tell  Tabywana  that  no  harm  shall  come  to 
Nat-u-ritch  while  I  live,  and  say  to  the  Chief  he  is  a 
good  friend  and  I  thank  him  for  coming,  and  I  would 
like  him  to  accept  this  tobacco." 

The  eternal  child  in  the  Indian  answered  the  last 
words,  as  Jim  handed  him  the  gayly  embroidered 
pouch,  with  a  quick  smile  and  nod  of  appreciation. 
He  was  about  to  protest  further,  however,  when 
Shorty  interrupted  them  as  he  came  running  in. 
"A  stranger  out  here  wants  to  see  the  boss." 

Ah,  this  was  about  the  ranch,  no  doubt,  so  Jim  said, 
"All  right,  Shorty,  bring  him  to  me." 

"All  right,  boss." 

227 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Bill,  show  Tabywana  on  his  way,"  Jim  directed, 
as  the  Indian  seemed  loath  to  leave  him.  "Adios 
amigo,"  he  called  to  Tabywana,  as  Bill  gently  pushed 
him  away.  Baco  followed  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  looking  for  Mr.  Car- 
ston." 

Bill  amusedly  surveyed  the  new-comer  as  he  an 
swered,  "There's  Mr.  Carston,"  and  as  he  disap 
peared  behind  the  house  he  muttered  to  himself,  with 
a  backward  glance  at  the  visitor,  "Looks  as  though 
he  blew  off  a  comic  paper." 


CHAPTER   XXI 

AND  it  was  to  this  that  James  Wynnegate  had 
/JLcome,  was  the  first  thought  of  Malcolm  Petrie 
as  he  surveyed  the  crude  place  with  its  marks  of 
poverty  and  failure.  Like  all  those  intimate  with  the 
Wynnegate  family,  he  knew  of  the  mysterious  dis 
appearance  of  Jim  Wynnegate  at  the  time  of  the  em 
bezzlement  from  the  Relief  Fund.  Although  his 
brother,  Johnston  Petrie,  had  been  the  active  adviser 
of  the  family,  he  had  personally  known  Jim's  father, 
and  as  he  watched  Jim  now  he  began  to  feel  a  new 
interest  in  him.  Since  the  death  of  his  brother 
Johnston  he  had  assumed  control  of  the  Kerhill 
estate.  As  he  studied  the  worn  man  who  stood  in 
the  strong  light  of  the  afternoon,  dressed  in  faded  and 
patched  riding-breeches,  with  a  flannel  shirt,  and 
careless  kerchief  knotted  about  his  throat,  and  with 
roughened  hands  that  showed  their  service  in  manual 
labor,  he  thought  of  him  as  the  soldier  he  had  often 
seen  in  the  London  world.  But  could  those  be  the 
eyes  of  a  man  who  was  hiding  from  justice  ?  Again 
he  looked  at  the  slip  of  paper  which  was  marked,  "Jim 
Carston,  of  Carston's  Ranch." 

Instinctively  Jim  placed  the  man  who  stood  before 

229 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

him.  Even  though  he  had  never  seen  him  before,  the 
resemblance  to  his  brother,  Johnston  Petrie,  was  un 
mistakable.  The  light  began  to  deepen  into  crimson 
shadows,  and  a  stillness  hung  over  the  ranch.  All 
the  men  were  away  in  their  quarters,  with  Big  Bill 
guarding  them  so  that  the  boss  should  not  be  dis 
turbed  in  what  he  supposed  was  a  possible  chance  to 
sell  the  place. 

Diplomatically,  Malcolm  Petrie  began,  "This  is 
Mr.  Carston  ?" 

"And  you  ?"  Jim  questioned. 

Petrie  handed  him  a  card  as  he  said,  "Malcolm 
Petrie,  of  the  firm  of  Crooks,  Petrie  &  Petrie,  solicit 
ors,  London,  and  at  your  lordship's  service." 

Before  Jim  could  speak,  Petrie  continued:  "Par 
don  my  abruptness  in  coming  on  you  unawares. 
Most  of  the  time  I  allowed  myself  has  been  given  to 
locating  you." 

"Well,  Mr.  Petrie,  go  on,"  was  all  Jim  said,  as  he 
turned  the  card  in  his  hand.  He  hardly  knew  what 
course  to  pursue.  Should  he  deny  or  acknowledge  to 
this  trustworthy  man,  who  was  regarding  him  with 
such  sympathetic  interest,  that  he  was  Jim  Wynnegate  ? 
A  hunger  to  learn  something  of  the  world  he  had  left, 
to  be  allowed  to  listen  longer  to  the  cultivated  speech 
that  fell  with  such  beauty  on  his  starved  ears,  assailed 
him. 

"Crooks,  Petrie  &  Petrie  have  been  your  family 
solicitors  for  so  many  years  that  I  had  hoped  to  be 
remembered  by  your  lordship."  Petrie  was  deter- 

230 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

mined  not  to  allow  this  man  to  escape  for  a  moment 
from  acknowledging  his  identity,  so  he  pressed  him 
close  with  his  knowledge. 

"Mr.  Petrie,"  Jim  said,  "we  are  plain  people  out 
here,  where  every  man  is  as  good  as  every  other  man 
— and  a  good  deal  better,"  he  added,  as  he  remem 
bered  the  democratic  status  of  the  boys.  "So  please 
address  me  as  Mr.  Carston.  Won't  you  be  seated  ?" 
As  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  the  bench  near  the  hut. 

Petrie  adjusted  his  glasses,  the  better  to  observe  the 
man,  as  he  said:  "Since  you  desire  it.  Only  I  have 
come  a  very  long  way  to  inform  you  that  you  have  a 
right  to  the  title." 

The  cause  of  Mr.  Petrie's  presence  flashed  through 
Jim's  mind.  "Then  my  cousin— 

"Is  dead,  my  lord — Mr.  Carston." 

Monotonously  Jim  repeated:  "Dead.  Henry 
should  have  outlived  me." 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  the  bearer  of  distressing  news, 
your  lordship — " 

But  Jim  interrupted.  "Don't  humbug,  Petrie. 
There  was  no  love  lost  between  Henry  and  me,  as 
you  know,  though  I've  tried  to  forget  that." 

When  he  had  recovered  from  the  first  surprise  of 
this  meeting,  and  had  more  fully  grasped  the  signifi 
cance  of  Petrie's  news,  he  inquired,  "I  suppose 
Henry  left  a  statement  at  his  death." 

"Statement?"  the  lawyer  inquired. 

Jim  further  explained.  "Something  in  the  nature 
of  a  confession." 

16  231 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Confession?" 

"By  Jove!  he  might  have  done  that." 

"His  late  lordship  died  very  suddenly." 

But  Jim  waited  for  no  further  details.  "So  he  died 
without  a  word.  He  died  leaving  me  a  fugitive  from 
justice.  So  they  still  think  me—  Then  quickly  the 
real  facts  of  the  case  began  to  straighten  themselves 
in  Jim's  mind.  If  Henry  had  not  spoken — had  left 
no  confession — how  and  why  had  Petrie  sought  him  ? 
Then  he  asked: 

"Why  have  you  come  here?" 

Petrie,  who  was  constantly  watching  the  effect  of 
his  every  word  on  the  man  who  more  and  more  con 
fused  and  interested  him,  slowly  answered,  "I  am 
here  because  your  cousin,  Lady  Kerhill — " 

"Diana  ?"  Jim  softly  breathed  the  name,  but  said 
no  more. 

Petrie  continued:  "Believes  that  if  you  will  speak 
— if  you  will  break  the  silence  of  years,  you  can  re 
turn  to  England  and  assume  your  proper  place  at 
the  head  of  your  house,  and  in  the  world." 

So  it  was  to  Diana  he  owed  this.  "Then  there  is 
one  who  still  believes  in  me.  God  bless  her!"  All 
restraint  fell  from  Jim  as  he  sat  himself  beside  the 
solicitor  and  said,  simply,  "I  did  it  for  her  sake, 
Petrie."  Then,  as  though  unconscious  of  the  other 
man's  presence,  he  sat  staring  ahead  of  him. 

His  surmise  had  been  right,  Petrie  thought.  This 
man  was  not  guilty.  The  case  began  to  assume  new 
interest  and  new  complications.  He  must  hear  more. 

232 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

Jim  roused  himself.  From  an  inside  pocket  of  his 
shirt  he  drew  a  small  bag  which  held  a  sheet  of  faded 
paper. 

"You  are  familiar  with  the  late  Kerhill's  writing. 
You  are  also  familiar  with  his  character  and  life. 
I  have  never  allowed  this  paper  to  leave  my  body." 
As  he  spoke  he  handed  the  paper  to  Petrie.  "But 
death  has  cancelled  this  agreement/' 

Petrie  read  the  document.  Jim  sat  motionless. 
As  the  sun  dropped  lower  and  lower  towards  the 
west,  bolts  of  scarlet  and  purple  seemed  to  be  hurled 
from  its  blazing  brilliance  down  on  the  cabin  and  the 
yard.  Petrie  broke  the  silence. 

"So  you  took  upon  your  shoulders  his  guilt  ?"  In 
his  tone  there  was  no  great  surprise. 

"Not  for  him,  Petrie — for  her.  It  was  too  late  for 
her  to  find  out — well,  what  he  was."  The  rebellion 
against  the  dead  man  seemed  to  choke  him.  Then 
he  added,  "I  did  it  for  her  sake,  Petrie." 

A  restlessness  took  possession  of  Jim.  All  the  old 
memories  and  sorrows  began  to  lay  their  withering 
hands  upon  him.  He  crossed  to  the  hitching-post 
and  leaned  against  it  as  he  watched  with  unseeing 
eyes  the  purple-and-red  rays  tipping  the  Uinta  peaks. } 

Petrie  read  the  document  again,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
wondered  how  much  of  this  Lady  Elizabeth  had 
known — how  much  Diana  suspected.  He  could  see 
now  why  she  had  decided  to  come  with  him  to 
America.  He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  seen  her  a  few 
days  ago  at  Fort  Duchesne,  of  her  eyes  as  she  had 

233 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Disked  him  not  to  fail  in  his  search,  and  of  her  dis 
appointment  when  her  cousin,  Sir  John  Applegate, 
•who  accompanied  her,  had  protested  against  her 
riding  out  with  Petrie  on  a  venture  which  might  take 
days,  to  end  only  in  disappointment. 

He  went  to  Jim's  side.  "Lady  Kerhill,"  he  said, 
"will  be  more  grateful  than  you  know,  for  I  am  here 
as  her  ambassador  to  beg  you  to  come  back  home." 

Into  the  face  of  Jim  came  a  wistful  longing,  so 
tender  and  yet  so  tragic  that  Petrie  turned  away 
from  this  glimpse  into  a  hurt  soul.  He  only  dimly 
saw  the  man  as  he  heard  Jim's  whispered  words: 

"Home,  eh  ?  Go  back  home!  By  Jove!  what  that 
would  mean!"  Then,  as  though  a  panorama  were 
passing  before  him  of  his  life  on  the  ranch,  he  went 
on:  "And  I've  been  away  all  those  awful  years  in  this 
God-forsaken  place."  There  was  a  break  in  the  low 
voice  and  the  echo  of  a  sob  as  Jim  turned  his  back 
on  Petrie. 

Again  the  unlovely  surroundings,  wij:h  their  evi 
dences  of  pinched  means,  their  stamp  of  neglect 
through  want,  impressed  the  solicitor.  Very  quietly 
he  said,  "It  does  look  a  bit  desolate,  Mr.  Carston." 

Jim,  now  master  of  himself,  turned,  and  as  he  look 
ed  at  the  dusty  plains,  the  sun-baked  cabin,  the  parch 
ed,  feverish  land  about  him,  cried:  "Desolate!  It 
doesn't  look  much  like  Maudsley  Towers,  with  its 
parks  and  turrets,  and  oaks  that  go  back  to  William 
the  Conqueror,  does  it  ?"  Before  his  eyes  there  came 
a  picture  of  the  home  of  his  youth,  of  the  place  of  his 

234 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

manhood's  joy.  The  word  seemed  to  burn  and  tear 
at  him  with  its  possibilities.  "Home,  eh?  I  love  old 
England  as  only  an  exile  can — " 

He  forgot  the  West,  with  its  disappointments,  its 
scars,  and  its  days  of  pain,  when  memories  of  the  past 
would  not  be  stilled.  He  came  over  to  Petrie,  and  in 
a  burst  of  almost  boyish  confidence  poured  out  his 
inmost  feelings.  "I  love  the  English  ways  of  doing 
things" — laughingly  he  looked  at  Petrie,  and  added 
— "even  when  they're  wrong.  The  little  ceremonies 
— the  respectful  servants — the  hundred  little  customs 
that  pad  your  comfort  and  nurse  your  self-respect. 
Home,  eh  ?"  The  word  was  like  a  minor  chord  that 
he  wished  to  dwell  upon,  so  lovingly  did  he  repeat  it. 
"Home,  eh  ?  And  I  love  old  London.  I  think  I  am 
even  prepared  to  like  the  fogs." 

Amazed  at  the  change  in  the  man  before  him,  Petrie 
iat  spellbound  as  Jim  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'll  do  when  I  get  back  ?  I'll 
ride  a  week  at  a  time  on  top  of  the 'buses,  up  and  down 
the  Strand,  Piccadilly  Circus,  Regent  Street,  Oxford 
Street.  And  the  crowds!"  Before  his  excited  eyes 
came  the  rush,  the  very  smell  of  the  smoky  city  with 
its  out-pouring  of  humanity.  "  How  I  love  the  crowds 
—the  endless  crowds!  And,  Petrie,  I'll  go  every  night 
to  the  music-halls,  and  what's  left  of  the  nights  to  the 
clubs — and,  by  Jove,  I'll  come  into  my  own  at  last!" 

Carried  away  with  the  enthusiasm  that  was  in 
spiring  Jim,  Petrie  entered  into  the  spirit  of  his  joy  as 
he  cried,  "The  king  is  dead — long  live  the  king!" 

235 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Into  my  own  at  last!  And  I'm  still  young  enough 
to  enjoy  life — life — life!"  Into  Jim's  slender  figure, 
with  its  arms  out-stretched  to  the  past,  which  was  to 
be  his  future,  there  leaped  the  fire  of  immortal  youth. 
It  was  his  moment  of  supreme  exaltation. 

Suddenly  from  the  stable  door  opposite  came  a 
glad  cry  of  "Daddy!  daddy!"  as  Hal,  attracted  by 
the  loud  voice  of  Jim,  peered  from  behind  the  door. 
Then  the  child  darted  across  to  his  father,  who  still 
stood  with  his  arms  out-stretched  to  his  dream,  and 
clasped  his  knees.  Frightened  at  the  stranger's 
presence,  Hal  quickly  buried  his  face  against  his 
father's  body. 

The  ecstasy  faded  from  Jim's  eyes  as  the  cry  of 
the  child  brought  him  back  from  his  dreams  to  the 
affairs  of  earth.  Slowly  and  with  infinite  tenderness 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  bent  head  of  the  child.  The 
twilight,  which  is  short  in  the  Green  River  country, 
had  slipped  away,  and  the  angry  sun  disappeared 
behind  the  mountains.  Petrie  noticed  the  chill  in 
the  air  that  comes  at  evening  on  the  plains. 

The  cry  of  the  child  revealed  a  new  phase  of  the 
situation.  Silently  he  watched  Jim,  whose  glance 
went  towards  the  stable.  He  saw  the  figure  of  a 
beautiful  Indian  girl  emerge,  carrying  a  pail  of  milk. 
He  sawT  the  shudder  that  passed  over  Jim  as  Nat-u- 
ritch,  unconscious  that  she  was  the  central  figure  in  a 
tragic  moment,  moved  slowly  before  them  to  the  cabin 
opposite.  Her  master  was  busy  with  the  white  man, 
so  her  eyes  were  lowered;  she  did  not  even  call  to  the 

236 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

child  to  follow  her.  Jim's  glance  never  left  her  until 
the  door  had  closed.  Then  his  eyes  rested  again  ten 
derly  on  the  little  head  which  nestled  against  him, 
and  a  sigh  broke  from  his  lips.  He  stooped  and  drew 
the  little  hand  in  his  as  he  turned  the  child  towards 
Malcolm  Petrie.  The  words  of  his  glad  dream  seemed 
still  filling  the  air  as  Jim  said:  "Petrie,  you've  come 
too  late.  That's  what  would  have  happened;  it  can 
never  happen  now." 

Gently  he  urged  the  child  forward  as  he  said: 
"Hal,  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Petrie.  This  is  my  son, 
Petrie/' 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  news  was  not  so  very  surprising  to  Mal 
colm  Petrie.  In  his  years  of  practice  as  a  so 
licitor  many  similar  cases  had  come  to  his  notice.  He 
had  often  remonstrated  at  the  folly  of  sending  the 
younger  son  of  a  great  family  to  these  lands,  and  at 
the  unwisdom  of  parents  who  found  the  problem  of 
guiding  a  wayward  boy  too  hard,  and  so  let  him  go  to 
the  West,  to  be  left  to  the  mercy  of  its  desolation  and 
to  the  temptation  of  such  entanglements.  But  that 
it  would  be  a  new  difficulty  he  foresaw,  and  as  he 
took  the  child's  out-stretched  hand  he  remembered 
the  proud  woman  waiting  at  Fort  Duchesne.  To  him, 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  the  affair  was  understandable, 
but  to  Diana!  He  began  to  regret  that  she  had  come. 
There  was  no  suggestion  of  these  thoughts  in  his 
manner  as  he  kindly  said: 

"How  do  you  do,  my  little  man  ?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Petrie  ?"  the  child  answered, 
and  then  ran  back  to  his  father's  side. 

The  dark  head  with  its  faint  trace  of  the  Indian 
blood  was  extremely  beautiful,  but  Malcolm  Petrie 
noticed  a  much  stronger  predominance  of  the  Wynne- 
gate  features. 

238 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

With  his  hand  on  the  child's  head,  Jim  said,  "You 
see,  Petrie,  we  have  to-day  and  to-morrow — but  never 
yesterday."  In  the  man's  voice  was  so  much  despair 
that  Petrie  found  it  impossible  to  understand  it. 

"  I  don't  quite  follow  you,"  he  said. 

Turning  in  the  direction  in  which  the  Indian  girl 
had  disappeared,  Jim  answered,  "That  was  Hal's 
mother." 

"Indeed!"  And  still  Petrie  was  puzzled  at  Jim's 
attitude. 

"There  isn't  any  place  in  England  for  Nat-u-ritch.'? 
Then,  as  Jim  bent  over  the  boy,  he  held  him  close  and 
said,  "  Kiss  me,  dear,  and  now  run  in  and  help  your 
mother."  Jim  followed  the  boy  to  the  cabin  door. 

Malcolm  Petrie  said,  tentatively,  "And  that  Ind 
ian  squaw — woman,  I  mean— is  your — " 

But  Jim  stopped  the  word  that  he  felt  Petrie  was 
about  to  speak. 

"My  wife,"  he  said.  Petrie  dropped  his  glasses 
and  turned  sharply  to  Jim.  "My  wife,"  Jim  said 
again.  "You  don't  suppose  I'd  let  my  boy  come  into 
the  world  branded  with  illegitimacy,  do  you  ?" 

To  this  Petrie  gave  no  answer.  Under  Jim's 
almost  defiant  gaze  he  found  it  impossible  to  argue, 
but  there  must  be  a  solution  to  this  problem.  He 
moved  away  as  he  almost  lightly  said,  "An  awkward 
situation,  Mr.  Carston — quite  an  awkward  situation," 
but  the  words  conveyed  no  idea  that  he  felt  there  was  a 
finality  about  the  matter.  His  lawyer's  brain  would 
unravel  the  knot.  Jim  could  still  have  his  frec- 

239 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

dom.  Then  he  said,  "But  these  matters  can  be 
arranged.  You  will  be  in  a  position  to  settle  an 
income  on  her  which  will  make  her  comfortable 
for  life,  and  some  good  man  will  eventually  marry 
her." 

Jim  almost  smiled.  There  was  so  much  of  the 
conventional  standard  in  Petrie's  speech. 

"Wait  a  bit.  You  don't  understand."  He  mo 
tioned  Petrie  to  be  seated  again.  He  hesitated,  then 
determined  to  tell  his  story.  It  might  as  well  be  done 
now;  it  would  save  further  discussion. 

"I  first  saw  Nat-u-ritch  at  a  bear -dance  at  the 
agency.  The  Indians  reverse  our  custom,  and  the 
women  ask  the  men  to  dance.  Nat-u-ritch  chose  me 
for  her  partner.  We  met  again  at  Maverick,  where 
she  killed  a  desperado  to  save  my  life."  These  words 
Jim  almost  whispered  to  Petrie,  who  leaned  forward 
to  catch  every  syllable.  "The  next  time  I  saw  her — 
Oh,  well,  why  tell  of  the  months  that  followed  ?  One 
day  I  found  myself  lying  in  her  wickyup.  I  had 
been  at  death's  door  fighting  a  fever.  Searching  for 
strayed  cattle,  I  had  tumbled  into  Jackson's  Hole 
and  had  been  abandoned  for  dead.  Nat-u-ritch  went 
in  alone,  on  snow-shoes,  and  dragged  me  back  to  her 
village.  It  was  a  deed  no  man,  red  or  white,  would 
have  attempted  to  do.  When  I  grew  well  enough  she 
brought  me  here  to  my  own  ranch,  where  I  had  a 
relapse.  Again  she  nursed  me  back  to  life." 

He  paused.  How  should  he  tell  this  man  of  the 
days  of  blinding  temptation  the  loneliness  of  his  life 

240 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

had  brought  with  it  ?     Petrie  waited.     Jim  moved  a 
little  closer  to  him  as  he  went  on: 

"When  I  grew  stronger,  I  tried  my  best  to  induce 
her  to  leave  the  ranch,  but  she  would  not  go.  She 
loved  me  with  a  devotion  not  to  be  reasoned  with.  I 
almost  tried  to  ill-treat  her.  It  made  no  difference." 
Again  the  despair  that  Petrie  had  noticed  before  crept 
into  Jim's  voice.  "I  was  a  man — a  lonely  man — and 
she  loved  me.  The  inevitable  happened.  You  see, 
I  cannot  go  back  home." 

No,  this  wras  not  the  usual  case,  Malcolm  Petrie  told 
himself.  Even  he  had  been  impressed  by  Jim's 
recital  of  the  story.  It  was  this  man's  attitude  tow 
ards  the  woman  that  gave  him  more  cause  for  anxiety 
than  the  squaw's  position  in  the  case,  so  he  said: 

"Don't  you  think  you  take  rather  too  serious  a  view 
of  the  case  ?  You  can  explain  the  situation  to  her 
and  she  will  be  open  to  reason." 

But  Jim  interrupted  him.  "I  wouldn't  desert  a  dog 
that  had  been  faithful  to  me.  That  wouldn't  be  Eng- 
glish,  would  it  ?  The  man  who  tries  to  sneak  out  of 
the  consequences  of  his  own  folly — " 

"Believe  me,"  the  lawyer  protested,  "I  would 
advise  nothing  unbecoming  a  gentleman.  But  aren't 
you  idealizing  Nat-u-ritch  a  little  ?" 

Jim's  answer  was  not  reassuring.  "On  the  con 
trary,  we  never  do  these  primitive  races  justice.  I 
know  the  grief  of  the  ordinary  woman.  It  doesn't 
prevent  her  from  looking  into  the  mirror  to  see  if  her 
bonnet  is  on  straight;  but  Nat-u-ritch  would  throv 

241 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

herself  into  the  river  out  there,  and  I  should  be  her 
murderer  as  much  as  if  I  pushed  her  in." 

Then  Petrie  devised  a  new  scheme  to  test  Jim's 
resolution. 

"Why  not  take  her  with  you  to  England?"  he 
asked. 

"Impossible!"  Jim  answered.  "We'd  both  be 
much  happier  here.  Even  here  I  am  a  squaw  man — 
that  means  socially  ostracized."  A  bitter  laugh  broke 
from  him.  "You  see,  we  have  social  distinctions  out 
here." 

"How  absurd!" 

"Social  distinctions  usually  are,"  and  Jim  laid  his 
arm  on  Petrie's.  He  was  growing  tired  of  the  dis 
cussion.  Petrie  felt  that  Jim  wished  to  dismiss  it,  so 
he  determined  to  play  his  trump  card.  This  sacrifice 
of  a  splendid  fellow  was  madness.  Years  from  now, 
Jim  would  thank  him  that  he  had  urged  him  to  aban 
don  this  life  to  which  he  clung  with  his  mistaken  sense 
of  right. 

"I  think  I  am  justified  in  violating  my  instructions," 
Petrie  began.  "You  were  not  to  know  that  Lady 
Kerhill  accompanied  me  to  this  country." 

Jim's  hands  tightened  on  Petrie.  "Diana  here?" 
Furtively  he  looked  about  him,  as  though  fearful  of 
seeing  her.  "In  America  ?"  He  waited  to  be  quickly 
reassured  that  there  was  no  danger  of  her  coming  to 
the  ranch. 

"I  left  them  at  Fort  Duchesne — her  ladyship  and 
her  cousin,  Sir  John  Applegate.  I  was  to  bring  you 

242 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

there  and  give  you  what  was  intended  to  be  an  agree 
able  surprise — but— 

" Thank  God  you  did  not  bring  her  here." 

Jim  moved  away,  with  his  hands  clinched  behind 
him.  Petrie  followed  as  he  urged.  "She  will  be  dis 
appointed,  deeply  disappointed;  she  is  still  a  young 
and  beautiful  woman." 

If  there  was  temptation  in  the  words,  Jim  did  not 
betray  it.  Quite  simply  he  said,  "She  must  be." 

"With  many  admirers,  it  is  only  natural  that  she 
should  marry  again." 

And  Jim  answered,  fully  aware  of  the  torturing 
methods  used  by  the  man  who  wished  to  conquer 
him,  "It  is  inevitable." 

This  time  Petrie's  quiet  voice  rose  in  an  almost  im 
patient  intolerance  as  he  questioned,  "And  yet  you 
feel—" 

But  Jim  stopped  him.  There  was  agony  in  his 
voice.  "Petrie,  don't  tempt  me.  I  cannot  go.  My 
decision  is  made  and  nothing  on  earth  can  change  it. 
He  walked  towards  the  house  as  he  felt  the  sudden 
need  of  comfort.  He  wanted  to  feel  his  boy's  arms 
about  him;  that  would  be  his  solace.  At  the  window 
he  saw  Hal,  and  a  nod  brought  the  child  to  him. 

As  he  watched  him,  Petrie  said,  more  to  himself 
than  to  Jim,  "The  sentimental  man  occasions  more 
misery  in  this  world  than  your  downright  brutally 
selfish  one."  To  Jim  he  put  the  direct  question, 
"Your  decision  is  final  ?" 

"Final." 

243 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Too  bad.  Too  bad.  You  are  condemning  your 
self  to  a  living  death." 

"Oh  no;  I  have  my  boy.  Thank  God,  I  have  my 
boy." 

And  in  those  words  Petrie  knew  that  the  child 
meant  more  than  all  the  rest  oflife  to  Jim.  He  knew 
the  type — a  type  that  prevails  more  especially  among 
Englishmen,  perhaps,  in  whom  the  need  of  fatherhood 
is  strongly  dominant.  Almost  prophetically  the  law 
yer  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  boy,  who  was 
standing  on  the  bench  playing  with  his  father's  ker 
chief.  "The  future  Earl  of  Kerhill." 

Jim  answered,  defiantly,  "  My  boy  is  my  boy." 

If  Jim  persisted  in  refusing  to  accept  the  position 
as  the  head  of  his  house,  then  this  child  was  the  stake 
to  play  for,  Petrie  decided. 

"Well,  think  of  him — of  his  future.  He  has  the 
right  to  the  education  of  a  gentleman,  to  the  sur 
roundings  of  culture  and  refinement." 

As  Petrie  spoke,  his  glances  took  in  the  shabby  little 
chaps,  the  feet  in  their  worn  moccasins,  the  coarse 
flannel  shirt;  and  Jim  saw  the  look  and  understood. 
He  almost  hurt  the  boy,  so  tight  was  his  grasp  as  he 
lifted  him  down  and  held  him  in  his  arms. 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Petrie.  I  see  your  drift,"  he 
savagely  answered.  "  But  you  sha'n't  do  it,  sir.  You 
sha'n't.  I  won't  listen." 

But  Petrie  now  knew  that  he  had  touched  Jim's 
vulnerable  point,  and  that  he  was  capable  of  making 
the  sacrifice  for  the  boy. 

244 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"I  speak  as  the  trusted  friend  of  your  family,  as 
the  advocate  of  your  child."  He  told  himself  he  was 
justified  in  asking  what  he  did. 

"Before  you  came,"  Jim  said,  "I  was  a  ruined  man 
—stone  broke,  as  we  say  out  here.  I  had  to  begin 
my  life  all  over  again.  But  I  had  Hal,  his  love  and 
his  life  to  live  in  day  by  day,  and  now  you  want  that, 
too.  I  can't  do  it.  I  know  it's  selfish,  but  life  owes 
me  something,  and  that's  all  I  ask.  I  can't  let  him 
go.  I  can't— I  can't!" 

But  Malcolm  Petrie  persisted.  "You're  responsible 
for  that  child's  future.  You  don't  want  him  to  grow 
up  to  blame  you — to  look  back  to  his  youth  and  his 
father  with  bitterness,  perhaps  hate." 

Jim,  as  he  held  the  boy  from  him  and  studied  the 
tiny  face,  cried,  "You'll  never  do  that,  will  you, 
Hal,  my  boy  ?" 

"What,  daddy?" 

"Think  badly  of  your  father?" 

"No,  daddy,  no,"  and  the  child's  arms  were  thrown 
about  Jim's  shaking  body. 

Petrie  touched  Jim's  arm  quietly.  "You're  rob 
bing  your  child  of  his  manifest  destiny." 

"What  do  you  want  ?" 

"Send  the  little  man  home  with  me." 

With  eyes  almost  blinded  with  emotion,  Jim  looked 
into  Petrie's  face.  "  Have  you  any  children,  Petrie  ?" 

The  solicitor  shook  his  head,  and  in  Jim's  words, 
"I  knew  it — I  knew  it,"  he  understood  what  he  meant. 

Like  a  father  who  sympathizes,  yet  must  be  firm  in 

245 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

his  efforts  to  convince  his  son  of  his  wisdom,  Petrie 
spoke. 

"I  am  thinking  of  Hal's  future,  as  the  friend  and 
adviser  of  your  family.  I  am  thinking  coldly,  per 
haps,  but,  believe  me,  kindly." 

Jim  could  not  doubt  his  sincerity.  He  buried  his 
head  against  the  ^ld.  "You  don't  know  what  a 
lonely  life  I  led  until  Hal  was  born,  and  how  lonely 
I'll  be  when  he  is  gone." 

Gone!  Could  he  agree  to  this  separation?  The 
word  frightened  him.  "Gone!  Oh,  my  God,  no!" 
He  could  not. 

Then  Petrie  appealed  to  Jim's  conscience.  "You 
know  the  trite  old  saying,  *  England  expects  that  every 
man  this  day  shall  do  his  duty.":  So  simply,  so 
seriously  did  Petrie  quote  the  well-worn  phrase,  that 
its  shaft  went  home. 

Duty!  Duty!  Ah,  one  mibht  squander  control 
of  one's  own  destiny,  but  for  another,  for  the 
child  whom  the  parent  has  brought  into  life — how 
answer  that  ?  It  was  the  duty  of  the  parent  to  the 
child — in  that  lay  the  whole  definition  of  the  word. 
He  held  the  tiny  face  in  his  hands  as  he  whispered: 
"Well,  Hal,  old  chap,  it's  a  tough  proposition  they've 
put  up  to  your  daddy,  son.  But  what  must  be  must 
be.  You'll  be  braver  than  I  am,  I  hope."  He  for 
got  that  the  child  could  not  understand  him.  Sobs 
shook  him  as  he  held  the  boy  tight  against  his 
breast.  Hal  sought  to  comfort  his  father  with  soft, 
loving  pats. 

246 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim  raised  his  head.  "Petrie,  you've  nailed  me  to 
the  cross.  He  goes  back  with  you." 

"You'll  never  regret  this,"  and  Petrie  laid  his  hand 
on  Jim's  shoulder. 

"Ask  them  to  teach  him  that  I  did  this  for  his  sake; 
but  he'll  forget  me — you'll  see.  Some  one  else  will 
take  my  place,  and  he  will  leant  >  love  them  better 
than  he  loves  me." 

Petrie  tried  to  comfort  him.  "No,  he  shall  hold 
you  in  his  memory  always — always." 

Suddenly  Jim  remembered.  "What  about  his 
mother  ?" 

"If  you  can  make  the  sacrifice,  she  must.  They 
say  Indians  are  stoics." 

"  I  can  understand  the  reason  for  it,  Petrie,  man.  It 
will  seem  a  needless  cruelty  to  her.  She's  almost  as 
much  of  a  child  as  Hal.  I'll  try— I'll  try." 

Holding  Hal  by  the  hand,  he  walked  to  the  cabin 
and  called:  "Nat-u-ritch,  Nat-u-ritch,  come  here, 
little  woman.  I  want  you." 


17 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

NAT-U-RITCH,  with  slow  impassiveness,  obeyed. 
She  came  from  the  house  with  hardly  a  glance  at 
the  stranger.  She  had  changed  but  little;  still  slender 
and  childish  in  form,  motherhood  and  the  past  five 
years  seemed  to  have  left  no  mark  upon  her  save, 
perhaps,  for  a  more  marked  wistfulness  of  expression, 
especially  when  she  looked  at  Jim  and  the  boy.  Her 
life  was  complete;  physical  deprivations  or  disappoint 
ments  mattered  little  to  her.  Taught  by  Jim  the  ways 
of  civilization,  she  tried  to  apply  them  to  her  sur 
roundings,  but  it  seemed  to  her  a  waste  of  the  golden 
hours  when  she  might  be  following  her  master  in 
stead  across  the  plains  or  playing  with  her  child. 
It  was  almost  piteous  to  see  how  she  controlled  the 
instincts  of  her  savage  desire  for  freedom,  and  in  her 
primitive  way  cared  for  the  little  cabin  so  as  to  please 
Jim. 

Malcolm  Petrie  noticed  at  once  the  difference  be 
tween  Nat-u-ritch  and  the  other  Indian  women  whom 
he  had  seen  during  the  past  days,  and  was  impressed 
by  it. 

Hal,  at  sight  of  his  mother,  quickly  responded  to  her 
out-stretched  hand. 

248 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Nat-u-ritch,  this  is  my  te-guin — my  friend,"  and 
Jim  indicated  Petrie.  She  inclined  her  head  to  the 
solicitor  and  said,  "How?"  As  her  eyes  met  Petrie's 
shrewd  glance  an  instinctive  apprehension  caused  her 
to  tighten  her  arm  about  the  child. 

"Te-guin — big  chief  from  out  yonder — over  the  big 
water,"  Jim  explained,  but  her  unflinching  gaze  made 
it  difficult  for  him  to  go  on.  He  whispered  to  Petrie: 
"  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it — I  don't  know  how  to  do 
it."  Then  he  summoned  all  his  courage,  and  with  a 
forced  smile  said,  pleasantly,  as  though  humoring  a 
child,  "Nat-u-ritch,  te-guin  —  big  chief — come  for 
little  Hal." 

She  flung  her  arms  about  the  sturdy  little  fellow, 
and  a  sharp  exclamation  was  her  only  answer. 

"Pretty  soon  make  Hal  big  chief.  Touge  wayno — • 
te-guin — good  friend — take  Hal  long  way  off."  A 
shudder  ran  through  her.  She  began  to  grasp  what 
the  stranger's  presence  meant.  He  was  of  her  boy's 
father's  race,  and  for  too  long  she  had  forgotten,  what 
in  the  beginning  had  so  often  troubled  her,  that  Jim 
would  some  day  want  to  return  to  his  own  people. 
This  had  been  her  great  fear,  but  his  kindness  all 
these  years  had  lulled  to  rest  that  ache  of  the  early 
days. 

While  these  thoughts  tormented  her,  she  could  hear 
Jim  still  explaining.  "Long  trail,  heap  long  trail — 
over  mountains,  heap  big  mountains — Washington." 

She  slipped  the  child  to  the  other  side  of  her,  that 
he  might  be  farther  away  from  the  silent  man  who  was 

249 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

bringing  this  woe  to  her,  and  her  clutch  grew  tighter 
at  the  word  "Washington."  Jim  explained  to  Pe- 
trie,  "Washington  means  a  lot  to  them."  Then  he 
came  closer  to  Nat-u-ritch  as  he  said,  impressively: 

"Big  Father — send  for  little  Hal.  Say  make  him 
big  chief — te-guin  cross  wide  water — heap  big  boat — • 
Hal  see  the  rising  sun.  Pretty  soon,  some  day,  Hal 
heap  wickyup — heap  cattle  —  heap  ponies  —  pretty 
soon  heap  big  chief." 

He  waited  the  result  of  his  words.  He  thought  to 
appeal  to  her  pride  and  ambition  for  the  boy;  but 
she  only  shook  her  head  and  gazed  at  him  like  an 
affrighted  animal  whose  young  is  about  to  be  torn 
from  her. 

Jim's  fortitude  began  to  desert  him.  "She  doesn't 
understand.  She  can't — she  can't,"  he  almost  moan 
ed,  as  he  turned  away,  while  his  clinched  hands  and 
the  stiffening  of  his  body  showed  the  strain  that  was 
proving  almost  too  great  for  him.  "This  is  a  hard 
business,  Mr.  Petrie,"  and  Petrie  could  feel  the  vibrant 
emotion  of  these  two  victims  of  fate.  As  Jim  moved 
a  step  away,  Nat-u-ritch,  still  holding  the  boy,  started 
forward  and  caught  his  arm  as  though  to  hold  him 
back.  Her  mind  was  in  a  daze — she  could  utter  no 
word;  but  Jim  understood  the  pantomime. 

"She  thinks  I'm  going,  too,"  he  said,  and  hastened 
to  explain  away  her  anxiety. 

"No,  Nat-u-ritch — Jim  stay  here  always  with  you." 
Something  of  her  agony  was  relieved  and  she  loosed 
her  hold  on  him.  "Always  with  you,"  Jim  repeated 

250 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

tenderly,  looking  into  the  tragic  eyes  as  she  eagerly 
followed  every  word.  "Only  little  Hal." 

As  Nat-u-ritch  fully  grasped  the  meaning  of  the 
words,  there  broke  from  her  lips  the  one  English  word 
"No!"  which  rang  out  on  the  evening  air  with  a  wild, 
dry  sob  of  protest.  It  was  the  anguished  cry  of  uni 
versal  motherhood.  The  Indian  woman  sank  on  her 
knees,  with  her  arms  about  the  boy,  her  face  buried 
on  his  breast.  The  crouching  figure  betrayed  the  old 
savage  instinct  of  the  female  covering  her  young  from 
the  ruthless  hand  that  would  snatch  it  from  her. 

This  time  both  men  turned  away.  A  purple  gray 
light  fell  over  the  yard,  the  last  traces  of  the  sun's 
glory  disappeared,  and  the  air  grew  chilly. 

Jim  was  the  first  to  speak.  Kindly,  but  as  a  master 
who  must  have  obedience,  he  said:  "Nat-u-ritch,  I 
have  taken  counsel.  My  heart  is  good.  My  word  is 
wise.  I  have  spoken.  Go."  He  gently  disengaged 
the  boy  from  her  grasp.  Nat-u-ritch  looked  long  into 
Jim's  eyes,  and  as  she  met  his  immovable  determina 
tion,  without  a  struggle,  and  with  a  calmness  terrible 
to  see,  she  released  the  child. 

Jim  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  With  her  big,  stricken 
eyes  still  fastened  on  him,  she  stood  silent  for  a  moment; 
then  the  bent,  half-stumbling  figure  slunk  past  him. 
Jim  dared  not  watch  Nat-u-ritch,  though  he  could 
hear  her  heavy  breathing  and  the  flapping  of  her 
beaded  robe  against  the  ground  as  she  crossed  to  the 
stable.  Once  Petrie  saw  her  sway,  but  she  had 
steadied  herself  before  he  could  reach  her.  As  she 

251 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

reached  the  corral  she  stopped,  and,  turning,  flung  out 
her  arms  in  appeal  to  Jim;  but  his  back  was  towards 
her,  the  child  hidden  in  his  embrace.  Then  he  heard 
the  quick  patter  of  her  feet  as  she  fled  out  into  the 
night — away  from  these  aliens,  back  to  the  hills  to 
abandon  herself  to  her  grief. 

As  Jim  rose  he  resolved  that  when  the  boy  had  gone 
he  would  try  to  make  her  understand  that  this  sacrifice 
was  forced  upon  them,  that  for  the  child's  sake  they 
must  both  bear  it,  and  in  the  future  she  should  receive 
even  greater  care  and  comfort  from  him. 

"This  is  harder  on  her  than  on  me,  Petrie,"  he  said, 
as  he  lifted  Hal  up  on  the  bench  and  knelt  beside 
him. 

"Where  is  she  going?"  Petrie  asked,  as  he  walked 
towards  the  corral  behind  which  she  had  disappeared. 

"Out  into  the  hills  to  fight  it  out  alone.  Mr. 
Petrie,  this  is  going  to  be  hard  on  the  boy,  too.  He  is 
a  shy  little  prairie  bird  and  has  been  a  great  pet." 

He  was  thinking  that  perhaps  he  could  arrange  to 
let  Nat-u-ritch  have  the  boy  a  little  longer  and  keep 
Petrie  with  them  awhile.  "It  would  be  rough  on 
him  to  leave  us  all  so  suddenly  and  go  away  with  a 
perfect  stranger.  Can't  you  stay  here  a  week  or  two 
to  let  him  get  used  to  you  ?"  Jim  proposed.  "  By  that 
time  you  will  have  won  his  confidence." 

Petrie  answered,  "I  am  sorry,  but  that  is  im 
possible.  I  have  overstayed  my  time  some  weeks. 
I  left  important  business  interests  in  London  to  under 
take  this  mission,  and  I  must  return  at  once." 

252 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"But,"  Jim  pleaded,  "It  can't  be  as  bad  as  that. 
Well,  then,  only  a  week." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  have  already  used  up  all  the  time 
I  can  spare,  in  finding  you.  If  the  boy  goes  with  me 
it  must  be  now."  Petrie  knew  that  Diana  was  wait 
ing  for  Jim's  arrival;  he  must  reach  her  with  the  news 
as  soon  as  possible.  Every  hour  was  of  moment  to 
them.  She  had  been  persistent  in  her  desire  to  accom 
pany  him,  and  two  days  had  passed  since  he  left  her 
at  Fort  Duchesne.  He  feared  some  complication 
might  arise  from  her  woman's  impatience,  and  as  it 
was,  he  would  not  be  able  to  leave  the  ranch  before 
daybreak.  Night  was  already  beginning  to  close  in 
on  them. 

Jim  began  to  realize  the  wisdom  of  Petrie's  decision. 
It  would  only  prolong  the  agony.  He  must  make  it 
easy  for  the  boy;  afterwards — well,  afterwards —  But 
he  dared  not  picture  the  desolation  which  would  be 
his. 

"Hal,  my  boy,  my  darling,  I  must  tell  you  some 
thing.  You  know  you  want  to  be  a  soldier  like  the 
ones  you  saw  at  Fort  Duchesne.  Remember  ?  With 
the  yellow  plumes  and  tassels  and  swords  and  things  r" 

The  boy  was  growing  sleepy,  but  at  these  words 
roused  himself  and  delightedly  exclaimed,  "Yes, 
yes!" 

"Well,  Mr.  Petrie  is  going  to  make  you  one."  Hal 
looked  over  in  approval  at  their  visitor  who  was  to 
make  his  dream  come  true.  "Only,"  Jim  continued, 
"you'll  wear  a  fine  red  coat  instead  of  a  blue  one, 

253 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

and  Mr.  Petrie's  going  to  make  you  a  big,  fine  soldier 
man.  So  daddy's  going  to  let  you  go.  Isn't  that 
fine?" 

"You,  too,  daddy?"  the  child  questioned. 

"No,  dear;  I  can't  go.  When  you  go  away  there'll 
be  nobody  but  me  to  take  care  of  little  momie." 

"I  won't  go  alone,"  Hal  protested. 

"Yes,  dear,  if  father  wants  you  to,"  Jim  persuaded. 

But  the  child  only  cried,  "I  won't — I  won't — I 
won't!"  as  he  flung  his  arms  about  his  father's  neck. 

Jim  felt  it  would  be  useless  to  argue  further  now. 
It  was  past  the  boy's  bedtime,  so  he  only  said,  coax- 
ingly,  "Yes,  yes,  you  will."  A  scheme  to  help  the 
boy  to  bear  the  separation  began  to  formulate  in  his 
mind.  They  should  take  him  away  while  he  was 
asleep,  and  he  would  send  Big  Bill  along  with  him 
for  a  few  days  if  necessary. 

"Now,  old  man,  tell  Mr.  Petrie  good-night." 

The  child  did  as  he  was  bid. 

Quite  hopefully  Jim  went  on  talking  to  him  as  they 
crossed  to  the  cabin.  "All  right.  And  now  daddy 
will  undress  you  and  hear  your  prayers,  and  we'll 
have  our  usual  romp,  and  then  the  sandman  will 
come."  Then,  as  the  sleepy  child,  yawning,  drooped 
his  head,  Jim  lifted  him  in  his  arms  and  cried:  "Kiss 
me,  dear.  Oh,  don't  ever  forget  your  daddy!" 

So  engrossed  was  he  that  he  failed  to  hear  in  the 
distance  sounds  that  told  that  visitors  were  arriving 
at  the  ranch.  But  Petrie,  who  was  ever  alert,  had 
been  aware  of  the  first  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  and 

254 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

now  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  came  Big  Bill's 
voice,  high  above  all  the  others,  saying: 

"Well,  I  guess  not.  Ain't  none  of  us  ever  forgot 
that  day  at  Maverick.  My,  he'll  be  glad  to  see  you! 
— Mr.  Carston,"  he  called. 

But  it  was  the  triumphant  call  of  "Jim,  Jim!"  that 
made  him  turn  to  see  Diana.  In  it  was  all  the  hope 
that  had  been  buried  so  long — all  the  loving  joy  which 
she  meant  to  lavish  on  the  man  whose  starved  life  had 
been  one  long  sacrifice  for  her  She  had  imagined 
this  moment — lived  it  again  and  again,  and  now  it 
was  hers. 

Gracious  and  beautiful  she  stood  in  the  dim  light, 
holding  out  her  hands  in  welcome.  Behind  her  stood 
Sir  John,  while  Petrie's  face  betrayed  the  surprise 
that  he  felt,  although  he  knew  he  had  been  fearing  such 
an  occurrence.  Jim  saw  them  all.  One  hand  still 
kept  its  hold  on  the  child,  who  at  the  voices  had 
hidden  behind  his  father;  he  raised  the  other  to  his 
head.  He  simply  spoke  the  name  "Diana." 

"Why,  Jim,  I  don't  believe  you're  glad  to  see  us!" 
Diana  cried,  as  he  made  no  attempt  to  take  her  hand. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  answered.  "I'm  dazed,  Diana — • 
dazed."  Then  he  turned  in  appeal  to  Malcolm 
Petrie.  "Petrie?"  he  questioned.  It  would  have 
been  too  cruel  if  this  had  taken  place  with  Petrie's 
knowledge,  but  he  could  not  doubt  the  truth  of  the 
solicitor's  words. 

"This  is  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  me  as  it  is  to  you, 
Mr.  Carston." 

255 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Diana  smiled  at  Petrie.  She  had  taken  her  own 
way  in  spite  of  his  and  Sir  John's  remonstrance.  But 
they  could  not  understand  her — Jim  would.  What 
did  they  know  of  the  Fairies'  Corner — of  the  long 
torment  she  and  Jim  had  shared  ? 

"We  simply  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  Jim.  We've 
come  to  take  you  home — you'll  come  home  now,  Jim, 
won't  you  ?  Come  home  ?"  And  as  she  spoke  she 
meant  all  that  the  word  implied  in  its  completeness. 
She  was  suing  Jim  to  let  her  give  him  all  that  he  had 
desired  in  the  long  ago. 

"Home — home,"  Jim  repeated.  Was  he  always 
to  be  tortured  by  what  he  never  could  have  ?  His 
eyes  fell  on  Hal,  who  was  peering  out  from  behind  him. 
As  Diana  saw  the  tiny  figure  in  its  strange  garments, 
she  involuntarily  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  what  a  dear  boy!" 

The  child  stared  at  her. 

Smiling,  she  knelt  before  him.  "Whose  little  boy 
are  you,  dear  ?"  she  asked. 

Hal  glanced  at  his  father  and  his  look  said,  "  Shall 
I  go  to  the  strange  lady  ?"  Jim  nodded  his  head. 
Shyly  the  child  advanced  towards  her.  "  Jim's  boy," 
he  said. 

Diana  was  holding  the  child's  hands  in  hers.  At 
the  words  she  lifted  her  face  to  Jim  and  mechanically 
repeated,  "Jim's  boy?"  Then  she  looked  from  the 
dark  head,  with  its  curious  foreign  beauty,  up  to  the 
man  who  stood  there  with  blanched  face  and  sorrow- 
stricken  eyes.  Gradually  she  began  to  comprehend 

256 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

the  meaning  of  the  boy's  words.  Again  she  mutely 
questioned  Jim. 

He  came  to  the  boy  and  laid  his  hands  on  the  little 
fellow's  head.  "Yes,  Diana.  My  boy — my  son." 

She  had  dropped  the  child's  hands  at  his  first  word. 
She  looked  about  her,  but  everything  was  dim  and 
ghostly  in  the  dim  light.  She  felt  the  child's  hand  on 
her  sleeve.  She  could  see  only  Jim's  eyes  in  the  boy's 
face  inquiringly  regarding  her.  Above  him,  Jim  still 
stood,  silent  and  constrained.  Petrie  and  Sir  John, 
with  Big  Bill,  had  left  them.  Only  a  moment  did  she 
waver,  then  with  a  quick,  impetuous  cry  she  caught 
the  boy  to  her  heart,  and  in  that  cry  was  expressed  all 
the  starved  maternity  of  her  barren  life. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

JIM  and  Diana  sat  late  into  the  night  while 
she  listened  to  the  story  of  his  life  in  the  West. 
Urged  by  Sir  John,  it  was  arranged  that  she  should 
leave  the  ranch  the  following  day.  Bitter  as  was  her 
disappointment,  Diana  accepted  it  without  comment. 
Now  her  concern  was  chiefly  for  the  boy,  and  she 
eagerly  awaited  Nat-u-ritch's  return,  hoping  she  might 
help  the  little  woman  to  see  the  wisdom  of  making 
this  sacrifice  for  her  child's  advantage. 

Down  the  hills  towards  midnight  Nat-u-ritch  stole, 
an  elf-like  creature,  with  her  clinking,  beaded  robe 
gleaming  in  the  moonlight.  Past  the  men's  dwelling 
she  went,  and  on  to  the  cabin  for  a  last  sight  of  her 
sleeping  boy.  From  his  spying-ground  Bill  saw  her, 
but  made  no  effort  to  detain  her.  He  knew  that  the 
arrival  of  Jim's  kinsmen  had  caused  a  strange  tur 
moil  in  his  life,  and  made  him  forget  that  Bud  Hardy 
might  still  prove  a  menace  to  him.  So  Bill  kept  his 
faithful  vigil;  but  once  fatigue  caught  him  and  he 
closed  his  tired  eyes  for  a  brief  space.  It  was  just  the 
moment  that  Kid  Clarke,  the  Sheriff's  watcher,  had 
been  waiting  for.  Unobserved,  he  slipped  away  to 
follow  the  trail  that  Nat-u-ritch  had  taken  when  she 

258 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

fled  from  the  house  in  the  afternoon.  Bud  Hardy 
had  cautioned  him  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  squaw,  and 
to  report  to  him  in  the  early  dawn  at  the  cabin.  Like 
Bill,  he  saw  Nat-u-ritch  make  her  way  to  the  cabin 
and  saw  her  return;  then,  as  he  felt  secure  that  she  was 
safely  out  of  the  way,  he  lay  in  the  loft  near  the  cabin 
ind  waited  for  Bud. 

But  Nat-u-ritch  had  not  succeeded  in  seeing  her 
child.  As  she  peered  into  the  windows  of  the  cabin 
she  saw  a  beautiful  woman  and  another  stranger  seat 
ed  near  Jim.  For  a  long  time  she  watched  him  as  he 
talked  to  the  woman,  who  now  and  then  went  to  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  the  child  lay,  and  listened 
as  though  afraid  that  their  voices  might  disturb  the 
boy.  The  woman's  presence  became  <*n  added  com 
plication  in  the  impending  tragedy  that  engulfed 
Nat-u-ritch.  She  longed  to  creep  into  the  room  and 
kneel  beside  Jim,  to  beg  to  be  allowed  just  to  be  near 
him;  but  she  was  afraid — afraid  of  the  curious  glances 
of  the  strangers.  Intently  she  watched  the  woman 
and  saw  the  look  on  Jim's  face  as  he  talked  long  and 
earnestly  to  her.  How  he  had  changed!  She  re 
membered  him  as  the  young,  strong,  handsome  buck 
whom  she  had  met  at  the  bear-dance.  For  the  first 
time  she  seemed  to  see  the  whitened  hair,  the  tired, 
patient  eyes,  and  the  marks  of  sorrow  on  his  face. 
Once  she  saw  him  lean  forward  and  gently  argue  with 
the  white  woman.  She  dimly  understood  the  dif 
ference  between  his  attitude  towards  this  woman  of 
his  own  race  and  to  her.  Gradually  a  new  pain  was 

259 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

added  to  the  hurt  that  tried  her  endurance;  she  could 
not  explain  it,  but  Jim  had  never  looked  at  her  like 
that.  He  treated  her  as  he  did  little  Hal,  while  he 
regarded  the  woman  with  him  as  his  equal.  She  be 
gan  to  sob  piteously,  like  a  child  who  is  suddenly 
asked  to  face  something  it  cannot  understand.  It 
was  useless  to  remain  there  longer.  Back  she  hur 
ried  to  the  hills,  more  desolate  than  when  she  started 
to  see  her  child.  Through  the  long  hours  that  fol 
lowed  she  made  no  effort  to  reason  or  to  con 
trol  her  emotions,  but  abandoned  herself  to  her 
grief. 

Just  before  daylight  Tabywana  crept  silently  along 
the  road  and  hid  behind  the  wagon  that  stood  near 
the  house.  He  had  been  following  Bud  Hardy, 
whose  early  visit  to  the  cabin  had  aroused  his  sus 
picions.  Although  Jim  had  dismissed  his  advice 
yesterday,  the  Chief  was  determined  to  see  him  again 
as  soon  as  daylight  should  come.  He  was  impatient 
to  disclose  to  Jim  the  fear  that  tormented  him  for 
Nat-u-ritch's  safety.  As  he  watched  for  the  first 
faint  streaks  of  dawn,  from  his  hiding-place  Taby 
wana  saw  Bud  Hardy  emerge  from  the  men's  quar 
ters  and  steal  towards  the  cabin.  Bud  tiptoed  about 
the  place,  then  crossed  to  the  loft  and  gave  three  short 
whistles.  Almost  immediately  Kid  Clarke  appeared 
and  leaned  out  of  the  loft  door. 

"Well?"  Bud  called,  as  Clarke,  dazed,  rubbed  his 
sleepy  eyes. 

"Nat-u-ritch  has  disappeared — her  trail  leads  to 

260 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

the  hills.  Carston  hasn't  been  to  bed  at  all.  He 
went  away  about  half  an  hour  ago." 

Bud  glanced  quickly  about  the  place.  "No  one  in 
the  room,  then  ?" 

Kid  nodded. 

"All  right — come  down,"  Bud  said. 

Kid  disappeared  from  the  aperture  in  the  loft  and 
Bud  went  softly  into  the  house. 

Silently  the  Chief  slid  down  under  the  porch  of  the 
cabin.  As  Bud  came  out  of  the  house  he  saw  in  the 
Sheriff's  hand  a  small  thirty-two-caliber  revolver  which 
he  was  smilingly  examining.  Before  he  could  pocket 
the  weapon  Tabywana  leaped  upon  him  and  clutched 
the  hand  that  held  the  gun,  but  Bud,  with  a  muttered 
imprecation,  deftly  threw  the  hand  with  the  revolver 
over  Tabywana's  shoulder,  but  only  to  feel  an  iron 
fist  beat  his  knuckles.  Involuntarily  he  loosened  his 
hold  and  heard  Bill's  voice  say: 

"Put  up  your  gun,  Clarke." 

Kid  had  reached  there  just  at  the  end  of  the  struggle, 
and  had  started  to  pull  his  revolver  to  assist  Bud. 

Holding  the  captured  revolver  in  his  hand,  Bill  said: 
"Why,  what's  the  matter,  boys?  I  don't  allow  no 
gun -play  on  this  ranch  —  not  while  I'm  foreman  of 


it." 


In  the  first  faint  light  of  the  rising  sun  the  three 
figures  were  like  ghostly  silhouettes  against  the  gray 
background. 

"I  want  that  gun,"  Bud  replied. 

"How  did  you  come  by  it?"  Bill  demanded. 

261 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Before  Bud  Hardy  could  speak,  Tabywana  grasp 
ed  Bill  by  the  arm  and  by  pantomime  indicated  that 
Bud  had  crept  into  the  house  and  stolen  it. 

Bill  turned  sternly  to  Bud.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  sneakin'  into  other  peoples'  houses  at  night  an* 
takin'  their  property  ?  Why" — as  he  examined  the 
revolver — "this  gun  belongs  to  Nat-u-ritch." 

Almost  savagely  Bud  interposed:  "Oh,  it  does, 
does  it?  You  heard  that,  Clarke?  Well,  that's  all 
I  want  to  know." 

Bill  saw  that  Bud  had  gained  evidence  against 
the  little  woman.  "Well,  it  ain't  all  /  want  to  know. 
You'll  have  to  show  me,  Bud — you'll  have  to  show 
me  why  you're  combinin'  the  trades  of  burglar  an* 
sheriff."  Then,  with  a  change  in  his  voice,  he  said, 
"Better  sit  down  and  we'll  discuss  this  amicable." 

Bud  seated  himself  near  Clarke  and  Bill;  Taby 
wana  remained  standing  near  them,  eagerly  trying  to 
grasp  all  that  was  being  said.  Bud  was  not  averse 
to  taking  Bill  into  his  confidence.  He  felt  that  with 
Clarke  as  a  witness  to  Bill's  statement  he  had  gained 
the  essential  point  his  case  needed. 

"You  fellers  have  guyed  me  for  years  about  Cash 
Hawkins's  death,  'ain't  you  ?  Now  it's  my  turn." 

So  Bud  was  going  to  try  to  make  a  sensational  arrest 
through  Bill,  and  thus  win  the  county  over  to  him  and 
secure  another  election  to  the  office  of  sheriff!  Should 
he  call  Jim  at  once,  Bill  wondered.  He  determined 
to  wait  and  see  if  Bud  meant  to  declare  his  inten 
tions. 

262 


ISee  page  257 


YES,    DIANA.       MY    BOY MY    SOX 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

"Ancient  history  that,  Bud,"  he  said.  "Forgotten 
long  ago." 

But  Bud  answered,  "Not  by  his  friends  and  rel 
atives  about  Jansen." 

"Oh,  they're  still  looking  for  somebody  to  scalp,  eh  ? 
Better  let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  Bud."  Perhaps  he  could 
reason  the  Sheriff  out  of  this  scheme;  perhaps  convince 
him  that  it  was  not  a  profitable  move  on  his  part,  and 
that  he  would  in  such  case  have  the  other  party  against 
him  if  he  ever  attempted  to  use  these  unfair  means. 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  Bud,  who  said, 
with  a  knowing  look  at  Clarke,  "You'll  have  to  hand 
that  gun  over  to  me,  Bill." 

"Will  I  ?" 

Bud  rose,  and  with  a  certain  amount  of  assumed 
dignity  said,  "I  demand  it  in  my  official  capacity." 
As  he  moved  towards  Bill  he  felt  Tabywana  creeping 
behind  him.  Irritated,  he  turned  and  faced  the 
Indian  as  he  said,  "Say,  we  'ain't  got  to  take  Indians 
into  our  confidence,  have  we  ?" 

Bill,  who  saw  that  he  might  accomplish  more  if 
left  alone  with  Bud,  said,  kindly:  "Tabywana,  get 
Baco  up,  will  you  ?  I  want  him." 

Tabywana  knew  that  he  was  dismissed,  but  he 
trusted  Bill,  so  he  only  muttered  a  warning  as  he 
started  to  do  his  bidding. 

"All  right,  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  Chief." 

Then  the  Indian  left  him. 

"  Come  on,  Bud,  I  call  you.  You  got  to  show  me 
your  hand." 

is  263 


THE  SQUAW  MAN 

"Well,  if  I  want  an  election  it's  up  to  me  to  make 
good  with  Cash's  outfit,  ain't  it  ?" 

"So  you're  due  for  a  grandstand  play,  eh?"  was 
Bill's  comment.  The  way  events  were  shaping  them 
selves  worried  him.  These  rough-shod  political  as 
pirations  often  led  men  like  Hardy  to  play  to  the 
gallery  in  order  to  win  a  high-handed  election. 

Bud  went  on,  sure  that  Bill  would  see  the  reason 
of  his  adventure,  "I  have  always  had  the  bullet  that 
killed  Cash,  and  that's  been  the  only  clew  I've  ever 
had." 

Dryly,  Bill  interrupted.  "It  hasn't  led  you  very 
far,  Bud." 

But  Bud  did  not  notice  Bill's  remark.  Impres 
sively  he  said:  "It  was  a  thirty-two.  Now  no  man 
in  this  country  ever  carried  a  toy  like  that.  That's 
a  woman's  weapon."  Then  slowly  pointing  to  the 
revolver  in  Bill's  hand,  he  said,  "That  gun  of  Nat-u- 
ritch's  is  a  thirty-two." 

If  this  was  all  the  evidence  that  Bud  had,  the  case 
was  not  so  serious  after  all,  so,  much  relieved,  Bill  said, 
lightly:  "Bud,  you're  a  joke.  Because  Nat-u-ritch 
happens  to  own  a  thirty-two — •" 

Bud  maliciously  interposed:  "Don't  be  in  such 
a  hurry.  The  last  time  I  was  over  to  Maverick  I 
happens  to  ask  Nick,  the  barkeep,  for  a  light,  and  he 
lets  me  help  myself  from  a  squaw's  beaded  match- 
safe."  Bud  cautiously  drew  a  tiny  blue-and-green 
embroidered  bag  from  his  pocket.  "  Hello/  says  I. 
'Where  did  you  get  that?'  'Oh,'  says  he,  'I've  had 

264 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

that  for  years — ever  since  the  day  that  Cash  Hawkins 
was  killed.  Found  it  in  front  of  the  side  door  down 
there/  And  I  bought  it  of  him  then  and  there" — 
Bud  looked  straight  into  Bill's  eyes  as  he  finished — 
"cause  I  recognized  it  as  one  I  had  tried  to  buy  of 
Nat-u-ritch." 

But  even  this  statement  apparently  did  not  startle 
Bill,  who  met  Bud's  glance  squarely  as  he  said,  "And 
so  you  jump  at  the  conclusion  that — " 

"Nat-u-ritch  killed  Cash  Hawkins."  Bud  took 
him  up.  "There  ain't  a  doubt  about  it.  You  see 
that  thirty-two  is  minus  just  the  shot  which  she  done 
it  with." 

Bill  paled  a  little.  So  Bud  had  noticed  the  missing 
bullet.  He  knew  that  since  her  marriage  Nat-u-ritch 
had  never  carried  the  revolver.  It  had  been  put  away 
on  a  shelf  to  be  out  of  the  child's  way. 

Bud  reached  his  hand  towards  Bill.  "I've  shown 
you  my  hand  fair  and  square — man  to  man — now7  I'll 
thank  you  for  that  gun." 

But  Bill,  who  caught  sight  of  Jim  coming  through 
the  corral,  said,  "That's  up  to  Mr.  Carston,  and 
here  he  is." 

Bud  turned  sharply.  He  would  have  preferred 
to  meet  Jim  some  other  time,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
retreat  now. 

Bill  went  to  Jim.  "Hello,"  he  said.  He  decided 
to  blurt  out  the  whole  affair  to  Jim  at  once.  He  knew 
then  that  the  squaw  would  be  safe;  the  boss  would 
see  to  that.  "Mr.  Carston,"  he  began,  "our  amusin* 

265 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

little  friend  over  there  is  a-contemplatin'  of  arrestin" 
Nat-u-ritch  for  the  killin'  of  Cash  Hawkins." 

"Oh  no;  you  must  be  joking,"  Jim  said  to  Bud, 
too  worn  out  to  give  vent  to  the  anger  that  began  to 
surge  through  him. 

Bill  was  relieved  at  the  light  manner  in  which 
Jim  seemed  to  take  the  news.  "Well,  that's  what  I 
thought,  but  he  takes  himself  kind  of  serious." 

Furiously  came  Bud's  next  words.  "Anyway,  I've 
got  evidence  to  arrest  her." 

Showing  the  revolver  to  Jim,  Bill  contemptuously 
added,  "And  which  said  Sheriff  steals  out  of  the 
house  of  said  trustin'  and  confidin'  friend." 

Jim  stared  in  amazement  at  the  revolver.  Yes,  it 
was  Nat-u-ritch's.  He  had  never  looked  at  it  since 
that  day  at  Maverick  when  her  hand  had  saved  him 
from  the  cowardly  attack  of  Cash  Hawkins.  He  did 
not  speak. 

Bud  moved  closer  to  him.  He  pointed  to  Bill. 
"And  which  he  said  belonged  to  Nat-u-ritch." 
Triumphantly  he  pointed  also  to  Clarke  to  indicate 
that  he  had  him  as  a  witness. 

Jim  motioned  Bill  to  the  house.  "Put  that  re 
volver  back  where  it  belongs,"  he  said,  and  Bill 
obeyed. 

Bud  darted  forward  as  though  to  stop  Bill.  "I 
demand  the  custody  of  that  myself,  Mr.  Carston." 

"Let's  understand  each  other,  Sheriff."  As  he 
spoke,  Jim  deliberately  blocked  Bud's  way.  "Nat- 
u-ritch  is  as  innocent  of  wrong  as  a  bird  that  flies.  It 

266 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

wouldn't  do  to  confine  her  in  that  dirty  little  jail  in 
Jansen.  It  would  be  murder." 

"You're  a  law-abiding  citizen,  Mr.  Carston.  You 
ain't  agoin'  to  resist  the  law  ?" 

But  Jim  stood  firm  in  front  of  the  cabin  door. 
"There  are  cases,  Sheriff,  where  justice  is  superior 
to  the  law,  and  the  white  man's  court  is  a  bad  place 
for  justice  to  the  Indian.  Fortunately  for  all  of  us, 
Nat-u-ritch  has  disappeared." 

As  Jim  spoke,  Bud  realized  that  if  the  Indian  wom 
an  were  there  Carston  would  not  be  so  calm. 

"But  you  couldn't  arrest  her,  Sheriff — not  while  I 
live.  Bill" — he  turned  to  the  foreman,  who  came  out 
of  the  house — "I'm  not  in  a  mood  to  discuss  this  with 
Sheriff  Hardy,  and  I  don't  want  to  violate  the  laws 
of  hospitality.  But  just  one  word,  Sheriff — you've 
eaten  my  bread,  slept  under  my  roof,  and  now  you 
sneak  into  my  house  to  get  evidence  against  the 
mother  of  my  boy."  Jim  hesitated,  and  then  as  he 
left  them  he  quietly  finished,  "Bill,  I  think  you'd 
better  see  the  Sheriff  safely  on  his  way." 

And  Bud  knew  that  for  the  time  being  he  had  lost 
his  game. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"/""^ARSTON'S  locoed.  He's  plumb  crazy.  There 
\^Ji  can't  be  a  jail  for  whites  and  a  palace  for  Injins. 
He  don't  suppose  he  can  stop  me,  does  he  ?"  Bud 
began,  excitedly. 

Bill,  encouraged  by  Jim's  mastery  of  the  situation, 
chaffingly  answered:  "After  you  arrest  Nat-u-ritch 
you'll  never  hold  office,  Bud.  You  may  hold  a  harp 
or  a  coal-shovel."  Then  he  laughed. 

"My!  You're  making  a  fuss  over  a  squaw,"  said 
Bud,  who  could  see  no  humor  in  Bill's  words. 

But  Bill  replied,  "Arrestin*  the  mother  of  innocent 
kids  will  not  be  considered  a  popular  form  of  amuse 
ment  around  here,  Bud." 

"Kids  ?     What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Bill.  "The  kid's  an  influential  citizen 
hereabouts.  He's  our  long  suit,  and  there  ain't  a 
live  thing  on  the  ranch  that  would  let  you  arrest  his 
rag  doll.  You  couldn't  get  away  with  it,  Bud." 
And  as  though  it  were  his  final  word  on  the  subject, 
Bill  said,  conclusively,  "  Better  get  elected  some  easier 
way." 

A  new  idea  fermented  in  Bud's  brain.  If  he 
failed  in  his  scheme  to  bring  to  trial  the  murderer 

268  " 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

of  Cash  Hawkins,  hundreds  of  men  to  whom  he  had 
blustered  and  sworn  that  he  would  accomplish  the 
deed  would  no  longer  believe  in  him  and  he  would 
probably  lose  the  election.  Why  not  try  to  gain  some 
compensation  if  this  must  be  the  case  ? 

"Git  our  horses  ready,  Clarke,"  he  said,  and  watch 
ed  his  assistant  leave  the  yard.  Slowly  Bud  hitched 
his  foot  on  a  log,  and,  as  though  he  were  about  to 
confer  a  favor  upon  Jim,  spoke  with  condescension. 
"Mr.  Carston  takes  this  too  much  to  heart,  Bill. 
Perhaps  we  can  come  to  some  understanding." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Well,  he's  come  into  some  money, 'ain't  he?  Of 
course  I  might  lose  this  match -safe  crossing  Red 
River."  He  lovingly  fingered  the  little  bag.  Bill 
drew  nearer.  "And  I  might" — Bud  continued — "be 
made  independent  of  the  job  of  sheriff,  if  it'$  worth 
the  boss's  while."  There  was  no  mistaking  the  in 
tention  of  his  words. 

"Bud!"  For  a  moment  Bill  could  say  no  more. 
In  the  past  he  and  Bud  had  been  friends — bar-room 
friends,  it  was  true — but  lately  he  had  begun  to 
suspect  much  about  the  Sheriff's  career  that  was  un 
savory.  Until  to-day,  however,  he  had  had  no  proof 
that  Bud  could  behave  like  a  blackguard.  "Bud," 
he  rejoined,  "you're  goin'  to  make  me  lose  my  tem 
per,  and  I  'ain't  done  that  for  twenty  years."  As  he 
spoke  he  raised  his  foot  on  the  log  beside  BUG'S  and 
in  deliberate  imitation  of  him  leaned  his  elbow  on  his 
knee  while  he  stared  straight  into  the  Sheriff's  face. 

269 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  Bud  began.  "I  can  put  you 
to  a  lot  of  trouble,  and  I  will.  I'll  arrest  these  Eng 
lish  people  and  put  'em  under  bond  to  appear  as 
witnesses.  They  were  at  Maverick  that  day,  and  I 
got  my  posse  ready  and  waitin'  to  obey  orders." 
This,  he  thought,  was  the  final  shot  to  bring  Bill  to 
his  senses.  He  waited. 

With  a  tolerance  that  did  not  hide  his  contempt, 
Bill  spoke.  "Except  for  Jim's  orders,  I'd  throw  you 
off  the  place.  Get  agoin',  Bud  —  get  agoin'  —  and 
don't  stop  to  pick  flowers." 

Bud  knew  that  Bill  was  conveying  a  threat  which,  he 
felt,  as  he  watched  his  face,  it  were  wiser  not  to  disregard. 
He  walked  towards  the  barn,  stopped,  ground  his  teeth, 
and  looked  back  at  Bill;  but  the  big  fellow  stood  mo 
tionless  and  in  supreme  disgust  watched  the  Sheriff. 
Bud  uttered  a  low  oath,  then  hurried  down  to  the  corral. 

Still,  Bill  did  not  move.  He  did  not  hear  Diana  as 
she  opened  the  cabin  door  and,  drinking  in  the  fresh 
morning  air,  said,  "I  feel  as  though  I  should  suf 
focate  in  there."  Her  looks  told  that  something  more 
than  the  close  air  of  the  cabin  room  was  stifling  her. 
As  she  came  from  under  the  porch  she  saw  the  im 
movable  figure  of  the  foreman  leaning  over  the  log 
with  his  head  on  his  hands,  watching  several  men 
down  the  road  who  were  mounting  horses  and  pre 
paring  to  make  a  start. 

"Oh,  Mr.—"     She  paused. 

Bill  turned.  He  saw  she  had  forgotten  his  name. 
"Bill,  miss,"  he  said. 

270 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Mr.  Bill—" 

But  Bill  interrupted  as  he  raised  his  hat.  "Just 
plain  Bill,  if  you  don't  mind — and  there  ain't  any 
thing  too  good  for  you  at  Red  Butte  ranch,  lady." 

Impulsively  Diana  held  out  her  hand  to  Bill,  who 
took  it.  "Thank  you,  Bill.  It's  good  to  feel  that 
I'm  among  friends,  because  I  feel  so  strange,  so  be 
wildered."  She  had  learned  of  the  foreman's  de 
votion  to  Jim  and  knew  that  she  could  trust  him. 
"Bill,"  she  asked,  "what  do  they  mean  by  'squaw- 
man'  ?"  There  was  so  much  she  could  not  say  to 
Jim,  so  much  that  had  puzzled  her,  and  she  longed 
to  unburden  her  heart  to  some  one.  This  faithful 
soul  would  understand  her,  and  would,  perhaps,  help 
her  to  learn  more  about  Ji*n  ?.nd  the  Indian  woman, 
concerning  whose  fate  she  was  now  growing  anxious. 

Bill  seated  himself.  "Well,  it's  the  name  some 
people  give  a  white  man  who  marries  an  Indian 
squaw."  Then  quickly  he  added:  "But  I  want  you 
to  understand,  miss,  Jim's  respected  in  spite  of  the 
fact  he's  a  squaw  man.  He's  lived  that  down." 

"Of  course  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  us  all  at  first." 

"Natural  it  would  be,  miss.  Of  course  no  ordinary 
white  man  would  have  done  it.  But  you  mustn't 
think  any  the  less  of  Jim  for  that,  miss." 

Quickly  Diana  answered,  in  sympathetic  accord 
with  Bill's  loyalty  to  his  master:  "I  think  all  the 
more  of  him,  Bill.  It's  only  another  of  Jim's  glorious 
mistakes."  Then  again  she  thought  of  the  woman. 
"I  wish  I  could  see  her.  What  is  she  like?" 

271 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Bill  could  not  understand  this  interest  in  Nat-u-ritch. 
"Just  a  squaw,"  he  said,  indifferently.  "She's  got 
two  ideas,  and  I  guess  only  two — Hal  and  Jim." 

He  liked  the  little  woman,  but  he  could  see  where 
she  had  been  a  great  disadvantage  to  Jim. 

But  Diana's  voice  as  she  said,  "A  mother  and  a 
wife — that's  a  good  deal,  Bill,"  made  him  realize  that 
perhaps  he  was  not  doing  the  Indian  girl  justice.  He 
could  see  the  tears  in  Diana's  eyes  as  she  spoke. 
"And  her  boy  goes  back  home  with  us." 

Bill  rose.  "Kind  of  tough  on  yours  truly,  lady, 
bein'  as  Hal  and  me  are  kind  of  side-partners,  but  then 
I  got  to  recollect  it's  the  best  for  the  kid.  That's 
about  the  size  of  it,  ain't  it  ?"  This  time  it  was  Bill 
who  solicited  comfort  from  Diana.  The  thought  of 
the  child's  leaving  them  had  been  a  difficult  proposi 
tion  for  the  boys,  and  they  had  discussed  it  long  and 
excitedly  when  Jim  told  them  the  plan  the  night 
before. 

Diana  understood.  "It  involves  a  lot  of  suffering 
all  around,  doesn't  it,  Bill  ?  But  it  seems  to  me 
Nat-u-ritch  gets  the  worst  of  it." 

True  to  his  opinion  of  the  red  race,  Bill  answered, 
"She's  an  Injin — used  to  takin'  things  as  they  come," 
and  he  hardly  heard  Diana's  words: 

"Poor  little  savage!" 

This  lady  had  appealed  to  him — why  shouldn't  he 
ask  her  advice  ?  It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  have 
frightened  the  Sheriff  into  leaving  the  place,  all  very 
well  to  appear  sanguine  and  hopeful  while  the  boss 

272 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

stood  near  him,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  he  was 
afraid.  Something  in  the  shifting,  malicious  look  of 
Bud  Hardy's  eyes  as  he  left  the  place  told  Bill  that 
there  might  still  be  trouble.  Twisting  the  rim  of  his 
big  hat  nervously,  he  said: 

"Say,  miss,  you  got  a  lawyer  in  your  party, 'ain't 
you?"  Diana  turned  to  listen  to  him.  "Oh,  but 
pshaw!"  he  went  on,  trying  to  reassure  himself  even 
while  he  spoke  the  disquieting  words.  "It  '11  never 
get  to  the  lawyer,  cause  Jim  '11  never  let  him  arrest 
her — never!" 

"Arrest  her!"  Diana  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

Bill  explained.  "Nat-u-ritch.  The  Sheriff  thinks 
he  can  prove  she  killed  Cash  Hawkins — that  day  you 
were  at  Maverick." 

Jim  had  not  recalled  that  incident  to  Diana  last 
night.  He  had  told  her  he  owed  his  life  to  the  Indian 
girl — how  and  why  he  had  not  explained.  Eagerly 
she  leaned  towards  Bill  as  she  cautiously  said,  "Why 
did  she  kill  him  ?" 

"Well,  if"— and  Bill  dwelled  on  the  word— "if  she 
killed  him,  she  did  it  to  save  Jim's  life,  and  it  stands 
to  reason  Jim  ain't  goin'  to  see  her  suffer  for  it."  Then 
as  he  saw  a  troubled  look  on  Diana's  face  he  re 
gretted  the  admission  of  his  worries.  "Say,  miss, 
I'm  awful  glad  that  you  an'  Hal  are  goin'  to  pull  your 
freight,  for  there's  goin'  to  be  merry  hell  around  here." 

He  quickly  begged  her  pardon  for  his  involuntary 
slip,  but  Diana  had  hardly  noticed  it.  This  would 
mean  new  worry  for  Jim.  Then  she  comforted  her- 

273 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

self  with  the  thought  that  perhaps  this  kind-hearted 
soul  was  exaggerating  things.  Surely,  if  there  were 
cause  for  anxiety,  Jim  would  have  spoken  to  her 
about  it. 

"Is  there  nothing  that  can  be  done,  Bill  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  is  there  anything  that  I  can  do?" 

"Don't  see  how,  except  to  git  away  as  soon's  you 
can."  And  then  he  told  her  of  Bud's  proposition  to 
obtain  money  from  Jim,  and  that  the  Sheriff  was  will 
ing  to  sell  his  evidence  against  the  Indian  girl.  "Why," 
he  added,  "I  'most  kicked  him  off  the  place;  and 
Bud  will  fight,  you  know." 

But  Diana  was  only  concerned  to  know  whether  the 
Sheriff  was  safely  out  of  the  way.  "You  say  the 
Sheriff's  gone  ?" 

"Thank  Heaven!"  Bill  answered.  "And,  by-the- 
bye,  just  to  be  more  cantankerous,  he  threatened  to 
hold  up  you  and  your  party  as  witnesses;  but  that 
wouldn't  be  legal,  would  it  ?"  As  he  remembered 
the  boys  he  added,  chuckling,  "It  certainly  wouldn't 
be  popular." 

Before  Diana  could  reply,  Jim  interrupted  them. 
Like  a  restless  spirit  he  had  been  wandering  over 
the  place,  from  barn  to  cabin,  from  Hal's  sleeping- 
room  to  the  boys'  quarters;  accomplishing  little  and 
vainly  trying  to  accept  the  events  that  had  crowded 
into  his  life  during  the  last  hours.  The  Sheriff,  he 
felt  sure,  could  easily  be  managed,  but  Nat-u-ritch's 
disappearance  was  causing  him  anxiety.  He  knew 

274 


THE   SQUAW    MAN 

it  was  a  trait  in  the  Indian  character  to  hide  away  and 
stoically  endure  its  grief  in  silence.  Every  moment 
he  expected  her  to  return.  Stronger  than  all  these 
thoughts  was  the  desire  that  Diana  should  go  at  once, 
and  little  Hal  with  her.  This  speedy  termination 
would  make  it  easier  for  them  all,  he  told  himself, 
and  then  there  were  matters  enough  to  claim  his  at 
tention.  So  he  reasoned  as  he  came  from  the  back 
of  the  house,  where  he  had  been  brooding  over  a 
valise  containing  the  child's  belongings.  As  he  saw 
Diana  sitting  there  deep  in  conversation  with  Bill,  he 
stood  amazed  at  the  simple  adaptability  that  made  it 
possible  for  her  to  adjust  herself  to  these  primitive 
belongings  and  people.  Bill  was  already  regarding 
her  as  a  friend.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  must 
see  Tabywana  to  tell  him  of  Nat-u-ritch's  disap 
pearance,  and  arrange  a  plan  with  him  to  help  her  to 
evade  Bud  for  several  days. 

"Bill,  I  wish  you  would  get  Baco.  I  have  sent  for 
Tabywana,  and  want  Baco  to  interpret  for  me." 

Bill's  heavy  boots  creaked  down  the  corral. 

"I  hope  you've  rested  well,  Diana,"  Jim  said. 

"I  haven't  been  to  bed,  Jim.  I've  been  trying  to 
think  it  all  out."  She  rose  and  came  to  him.  "Would 
she  be  quite  impossible  at  Maudsley  Towers  ?" 

Jim  knew  she  wanted  to  take  up  their  conversation 
where  it  had  stopped  last  night.  They  had  discussed 
the  subject  already,  and  he  felt  the  futility  of  going 
over  the  same  arguments.  It  only  tormented  him,  so 
he  answered,  "Quite." 

275 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Diana  persisted.  "Couldn't  she  be  sent  to  school 
for  a  few  years  ?" 

"It's  too  late.  That  might  have  been  done  when 
she  was  a  child,  but  now  she's  a  woman." 

"And  a  mother."  Then  hurriedly,  as  though  fearful 
that  she  would  not  have  the  courage  to  express  to  Jim 
all  her  concern  for  Nat-u-ritch,  she  said,  "Jim,  I 
wonder  if  we  are  treating  her  quite  fairly  ?" 

**I  hope  so."  And  in  Jim's  voice  there  was  a 
prayer. 

During  the  night  many  thoughts  had  haunted 
Diana.  The  soft  little  arms  that  had  clung  to  her 
the  night  before  troubled  her.  What  would  their 
loss  mean  to  this  child-woman  of  the  woods  ?  She 
decided  to  make  one  more  appeal  to  Jim  and  frankly 
lay  before  him  the  conflicting  emotions  that  had  torn 
her  since  her  arrival  at  the  ranch. 

"At  first,  Jim,  I  hated  everybody,  then  I  pitied  you. 
Now  I  am  thinking  of  her."  Jim  listened  intently. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Civilization  has  bred 
in  people  like  you  and  me  many  needs  and  interests. 
But  this  helpless  child-mother  has  just  her  child  and 
you,  and  we  are  taking  the  child  away.  Oh,  have 
you  the  right  to  sacrifice  her  even  for  the  child  ?" 

Jim  could  not  argue.  He  had  made  his  decision 
when  Petrie  wrested  from  him  the  concession  to  let 
the  child  go  to  be  prepared  for  the  life  he  had  no 
right  to  deny  him. 

"I  have  done  the  best  I  know  how,  Diana,"  he 
said,  simply.  "We  must  leave  the  rest  to  God," 

276 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

and  Diana  knew  that  the  words  were  the  result  of 
his  own  bitter  struggle  and  she  could  no  longer  doubt 
their  wisdom. 

She  stood  silent.  Jim  looked  at  her.  Of  their  own 
love  that  had  endured  all  these  years,  neither  spoke. 
It  was  Jim's  moment  of  greatest  temptation.  He 
longed  to  say  something  to  her  that  might  express  what 
he  felt;  but  again  he  conquered  himself. 

"Will  you  take  Hal  ?"  was  all  he  said.  "I  want  you 
to  get  away  before  the  heat  of  the  day." 

And  Diana  left  him. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

JIM  waited  anxiously  for  Tabywana,  to  enlist  his 
services  in  protecting  Nat-u-ritch.  Impatient 
of  delay,  he  started  towards  the  bunk -house.  On 
his  way  he  met  Bill,  who  informed  him  that  Bud 
and  his  men  had  gone.  Tactfully,  Bill  avoided  any 
reference  to  Bud's  last  threats,  and  Jim  was  com 
forted  with  the  news  of  the  Sheriff's  departure.  It 
only  remained  now  for  him  to  send  Tabywana  in 
search  of  Nat-u-ritch.  He  found  the  Chief  and  Baco, 
and  in  a  few  words  told  Tabywana  that  Nat-u-ritch 
had  gone  into  the  hills  because  he  had  decided  to  send 
the  child  away,  that  she  was  very  unhappy,  and  that 
he  wished  him  to  go  to  her.  Unmoved,  the  Indian 
listened,  and  only  at  the  end  of  the  words  that  Baco 
was  translating  for  him  made  answer  that  Jim  had 
spoiled  Nat-u-ritch,  that  she  must  obey  her  master, 
and  that  he  would  insist  upon  her  returning  at  once. 
But  Jim  explained  that  he  wished  her  to  remain 
hidden  a  little  longer,  until  he  was  sure  that  the 
Sheriff  had  really  left  the  neighboring  country,  as  he 
was  fearful  that  Bud  Hardy  meant  mischief.  Through 
Baco  and  Tabywana  he  would  send  her  food  and 
clothing,  he  added.  Gradually  he  made  the  Chief  see 

278 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

that  this  way  was  the  wisest,  and  Tabywana  left, 
breathing  vengeance  on  Bud,  and  swearing  that  a 
war  should  follow  if  the  Sheriff  dared  to  arrest  Nat-u- 
ritch. 

Jim  found  the  boys  assembled  before  the  cabin 
on  his  return,  while  Bill  was  directing  the  hitching  of 
the  horses  to  a  wagon  that  was  to  carry  Diana  and 
Hal  to  Fort  Duchesne. 

"Everything  ready,  Bill?"  he  said,  bravely. 

"Yes,  sir,  everything  ready." 

Jim  called  to  Hal  and  Diana,  who  came  from  the 
house.  He  picked  the  boy  up  in  his  arms  and  a 
sudden  terror  overcame  him.  He  must  be  alone  a 
moment,  to  gain  the  courage  necessary  to  face  this 
last  ordeal. 

"Take  him,  Bill,"  he  said,  "while  I  go  and  get  his 
bag,"  and  he  went  into  the  cabin. 

The  foreman  nodded.  He  held  the  boy  high  up 
in  his  strong  arms  while  the  men  crowded  around 
him.  He  must  try  to  make  it  easy  for  the  boss;  there 
must  be  no  tears.  Diana  and  Sir  John,  from  under 
the  porch  where  they  were  standing,  watched  the  men 
with  the  child,  and  during  the  years  that  followed 
it  was  a  memory  that  often  recurred  to  them. 

"Fellers,"  Bill  began,  as  he  enthroned  Hal  on  his 
shoulder — •" fellers,  he's  agoin'  to  Duchesne — savvy? 
Gee  whiz,  don't  I  wish  I  was  goin'  to  see  the  sol 
diers  and  flags  and  drums  and  brass  bands  and  every 
thing!  Ain't  he  goin'  for  a  fine  time!" 

The  child  answered  with  glee,  "Sure,"  and  the 
'o  279 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

men's  laughter  rang  out  at  the  child's  use  of  their 
own  mode  of  expression. 

Carrying  the  bag,  Jim  came  from  the  house.  "It 
won't  hurt  anybody  to  carry  his  belongings;  it's  al 
most  empty." 

Shorty  sniffed  as  he  peered  into  it,  "'Tain't  very 
full."  Then  he  threw  into  it  the  old  jewel-box  with 
the  trinket  which  Jim  had  given  him.  Jim  saw 
and  understood.  The  men  had  come  for  their  final 
leave-taking  of  the  boy;  they  wished  to  prove  that 
their  animosity  was  over,  that  they  recognized  that 
misfortune  had  come  to  them  through  no  fault  of  his. 

"Hold  on,  Shorty."  Jim  tried  to  prevent  the  little 
fellow  from  getting  the  valise,  but  Shorty  took  the 
bag  out  of  his  hand  as  he  snapped: 

"That's  Hal's  trunk,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  but—" 

"It  ain't  yourn."  Ever  aggressive,  Shorty  finished, 
"You  don't  want  to  fight  the  outfit  the  day  your  boy's 
agoin'  away."  And  he  pushed  Jim  aside  as  he 
carried  the  valise  over  to  Grouchy,  who  was  holding 
up  a  villanous-looking  jack-knife  to  the  child. 

"Say,  old  man,"  the  slow,  lumbering  ranchman 
labored,  "you  wanted  this  for  a  long  time.  1 
wouldn't  give  it  to  you,  'cause  I  was  afraid  you  might 
cut  yourself,  but  I've  been  a-savin'  it  for  you.  When 
you  get  bigger,  you  can  make  things  with  it." 

Grouchy  threw  the  knife  into  the  bag,  while  Shorty, 
deeply  touched,  muttered,  "That's  the  longest  speech 
Grouchy  ever  pulled  off."  After  all,  the  box  with  its 

280 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

trinket  had  been  a  gift  to  him;  he  must  give  something 
to  the  child  that  had  been  his  very  own. 

"Say,"  he  began,  "I'm  in  on  this;  he's  admired 
my  saddle  for  a  long  time." 

But  Jim  protested,  "Shorty,  what  on  earth  is  he 
to  do  with  it?" 

And  Shorty  answered,  as  he  flung  his  saddle  into 
the  wagon.  "I'll  bet  they 'ain't  got  nothin'  to  touch 
it  in  England." 

Bill  approvingly  observed,  "That's  right;  he's  a 
cow-boy  and  needs  a  real  saddle." 

Quietly  Andy  pressed  forward  and  diffidently  be 
gan,  "Und  say — und  say — und  sure — the  boy  you 
know — und,  by  golly,  he's  got  to  have  something  to 
remember  old  Andy  by — fadder  or  no  fadaer."  As 
he  spoke  he  drew  from  his  belt  his  revolver,  care 
fully  emptied  it,  and  held  it  up  to  Hal,  whose  eyes 
gleamed  with  joy  at  this  especially  desired  gift. 
"Maybe  dot  don'd  tickle  him,  eh  ?" 

"Andy,  is  that  sure  for  me?"  Hal  gasped. 

"Sure,"  Andy  said.  "Und  say,  old  man,  it's  a 
good  one — und  say,  it's  the  best  ever;  und,  by  golly, 
been  a  good  frient  to  me,  und  come  in  handy  some 
day  for  you;  und  you  remember  old  Andy  by  dot 
better  than  anything." 

Shorty  opened  the  bag  and  dropped  the  revolver  in. 
The  German  held  out  his  arms  and  in  a  trembling 
voice  said,  "Kiss  me,  you  rascal,"  and  the  boy 
jumped  into  his  arms. 

Bill,  who  had  been  listening  and  watching  the  men, 

281 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

was  tugging  at  his  waistcoat.  "And  here's  an  old 
watch  with  a  horse-hair  chain — he's  had  his  eye  on  it 
for  some  moons.  He'd  'a'  had  it  before,"  he  explained 
confidentially  to  Jim,  who  was  trying  to  prevent  Bill 
from  loosening  it,  "only  it  belonged  to  my  mother." 
He  knelt  down  on  the  ground  and  opened  his  arms. 
"And  now,  old  man,  give  me  a  long  hug.  Don't  ever 
forget  your  side-partner."  Bill  felt  he  must  be  care 
ful.  The  men  were  beginning  to  move  away,  and 
surreptitiously  to  dig  their  knuckles  into  eyes  that 
were  showing  their  emotion. 

Elated  and  excited  by  what  seemed  play  to  him, 
Hal  said,  as  he  patted  the  foreman,  "Be  good,  Bill," 
and  the  men  laughed  as  Bill  answered: 

"Sure  I  will — sure — sure." 

The  horses  began  to  stamp  impatiently  as  they 
grew  restive  under  the  attack  of  the  flies.  Diana 
looked  at  Sir  John.  They  must  start  shortly,  she 
knew;  but  who  would  make  Jim  realize  that  the  final 
farewell  to  the  child  must  be  spoken.  Petrie,  who 
through  a  feeling  of  delicacy  had  kept  away  from 
Jim  and  the  boy  all  morning,  came  to  Sir  John  and 
Diana  with  a  whispered  message  from  the  driver,  whc 
was  anxious  to  make  a  start. 

As  though  divining  their  thoughts,  Jim  went  to 
Bill,  who  was  still  holding  Hal.  He  threw  his  arm 
around  the  big  fellow's  shoulder.  "Aren't  you  goin' 
to  drive  to  the  fort,  Bill  ?" 

"No,  I  think  you  need  me  more  than  he  does." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  all  right." 

282 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Jim's  eyes  searched  the  child's  face.  For  the  boy's 
sake  he  must  control  the  aching  sense  of  desolation 
that  beset  him. 

The  cow-punchers  silently  made  their  way  up  to 
the  wagon  and  began  adjusting  its  contents.  No  one 
noticed  the  dark,  tragic  face  of  Nat-u-ritch  peering  out 
of  the  loft  door  down  at  the  child  and  the  strangers 
that  stood  prepared  to  carry  him  away.  Returning 
a  short  time  before  from  her  hiding-place  by  another 
trail,  she  had  eluded  her  father,  and  crept  into  the 
barn  while  the  men  were  absorbed  in  bestowing  their 
farewell  gifts  on  the  child.  Hidden  among  the  bales 
of  straw,  she  looked  down  on  the  scene.  In  her  eyes 
was  an  almost  fanatical  calm,  so  stoically  did  she 
watch  the  child.  She  seemed  in  some  dumb  way  to 
have  reached  a  solution  of  her  problem,  but  in  con 
quering  herself  she  had  paid  heavily,  and  this  ab 
normal  expression  of  hopeless  resignation  which  her 
eyes  held  betrayed  a  terrible  possibility. 

Bill  waited  for  Jim  to  speak.  As  he  held  the  dark 
little  face  between  his  hands,  Jim  softly  whispered, 
"I  wish  his  mother  could  see  him  once  before  he  goes; 
but  nothing  would  ever  reconcile  her  to  it,  I  suppose." 

"It's  a  heap  sight  better  for  her  as  it  is,"  Bill 
brusquely  said.  "I  told  Charley  to  drive  like  hell; 
the  quicker  they're  out  of  sight  the  better."  Bill 
turned  to  the  porch,  where  Sir  John  Applegate, 
Malcolm  Petrie,  and  Diana  stood,  and  his  glance  told 
them  that  they  must  end  the  strain  and  get  away  at 
once. 

283 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

"Well,  Jim,"  Sir  John  said,  "our  horses  are  tied 
to  the  corral;  everything  is  ready."  He  took  Jim's 
hand  in  both  of  his.  "Good-bye,  Jim;  sorry  you're 
not  going  with  us." 

"Good-bye,  John,"  was  all  that  Jim  said. 

Jim  was  conscious  that  the  last  moments  he  had 
dreaded  were  becoming  a  tragic  reality.  There  stood 
Diana  ready  to  start  on  her  journey;  on  the  other 
side  of  him  Petrie  advanced  with  out  -  stretched 
hand;  while  at  the  back  of  the  yard  he  could  see 
the  boys  clustered  around  the  wagon  waiting  for  the 
final  moment.  He  realized  that  the  sun  was  rising 
higher  and  higher  in  the  heavens  and  that  it  was 
growing  hotter.  He  must  send  them  away.  A 
strange  veil,  that  dimmed  all  about  him,  seemed  to 
hang  between  him  and  his  surroundings.  Finally 
he  turned  to  Petrie,  who  stood  on  the  other  side  of 
Bill.  "Good-bye,  Mr.  Petrie."  Jim  held  his  hand 
out  to  the  lawyer,  in  front  of  the  child,  and  in  a  low 
voice  said,  "You've  won  your  case  against  me;  see 
that  my  boy  gets  all  that  is  coming  to  him." 

Petrie  gravely  answered,  "You  may  trust  me,  sir." 
Then  he  joined  the  others  at  the  wagon. 

Jim  stretched  out  his  hands  in  silence  to  the  boy. 
The  child  jumped  from  Bill's  shoulder  and  nestled 
against  his  father.  Bill  left  them;  only  Diana  re 
mained  near  Jim. 

"And  now,  old  man,  kiss  your  daddy." 

A  troubled  look  crept  over  the  child's  face.  It  had 
ail  been  great  fun,  but  now — he  was  growing  fright- 

284 


THE    SQUAW   MAN 

ened.  His  hold  tightened  around  his  father's  neck. 
Jim  quickly  saw  that  he  must  divert  the  boy's  mind. 

"Take  good  care  of  Cousin  Diana,  won't  you  ?" 

At  this  appeal  the  child,  who  was  a  masterful  little 
Fellow,  used  to  being  treated  as  an  equal  by  the  men 
on  the  ranch,  answered,  "Sure."  And  as  Diana 
came  to  him  he  leaned  down,  smiled,  and  said,  "I 
like  you." 

Diana  smiled  as  she  kissed  him,  and  said,  "And  I 
love  you,  God  bless  you!" 

She  could  scarcely  bear  the  look  of  pain  in  Jim's 
eyes  as  they  went  from  the  boy's  face  to  hers,  then 
back  again  to  the  boy.  In  silence  they  grasped  each 
other's  hands,  then  Diana  walked  over  to  Bill,  who 
tenderly  helped  her  into  the  wagon. 

Jim  was  alone  with  his  boy.  There  was  much  that 
he  wished  to  say,  but  he  dare  not  speak.  He  could 
see  the  wistful  look  beginning  to  return  to  the  child's 
face. 

"Good,"  he  said,  lightly.  "And  now  be  off.'* 
Close  he  pressed  the  child's  face  to  his  lips.  "There's 
a  brave  boy — with  a  smile  and  hurrah!" 

How  could  he  place  the  child  in  the  wagon  beside 
the  waiting  woman,  whose  face  was  turned  away  to 
hide  her  pain!  His  voice  dropped  low  and  almost 
broke.  "Some  day,  when  you  have  a  son  of  your 
own,  you'll  know  what  this  means,"  they  heard  him 
whisper.  "But  no  Wynnegate  ever  was  a  quitter, 
and  so  we'll  take  things  as  they  come." 

Still  no  one  turned  to  him.     Diana  felt  the  child 

285 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

being  lifted  in  beside  her  and  the  baby  fingers  fasten 
around  hers.  She  turned  her  face  to  Jim,  but  almost 
savagely  he  called : 

"Drive  on,  and  never  look  back." 

And  Charley,  who  had  remembered  Bill's  words 
"to  drive  like  hell,"  with  a  crack  and  a  slap  let  the 
impatient  animals  go.  The  men  started  after  the 
wagon. 

"Give  'em  a  cheer,  boys,"  Jim  cried,  and  the  place 
rang  with  their  shouts. 

Petrie  and  Sir  John  galloped  alongside  the  wagon, 
with  Grouchy,  Andy,  Shorty,  and  Bill  following  as 
fast  as  they  could  run.  Cheer  after  cheer  sent  back 
its  echo,  while  Jim  stood  alone  listen:ng  as  he 
watched  the  swaying,  rumbling  cart  raise  its  cloud  of 
dust,  through  which  he  could  barely  see  the  men  still 
running  and  hear  the  faint  echoes  of  their  cries  of 
"Good-bye,  Hal." 

Like  a  symbol  of  broken  hope,  he  stood,  a  solitary 
figure  in  the  dreary,  deserted  place.  His  hands  were 
still  out-stretched  towards  the  receding  wagon.  The 
deep-tinted,  rose-colored  rocks  glowed  more  and  more 
radiantly,  until  the  blinding  glare  from  the  plains 
made  Jim  shield  his  eyes. 

"There  they  go" — he  strained  forward  closer  to 
watch  the  wagon — "down  into  the  ravine  —  out  of 
sight — and  out  of  my  life  forever." 

As  the  dip  in  the  land  engulfed  and  shut  out  his 
last  glimpse  of  the  travellers,  he  dropped  inert  and 
clinched  his  arms  over  his  head,  while  his  heavy, 

286 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

dragging  steps  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the 
terrible  stillness  that  had  fallen  over  the  yard.  Al 
most  mechanically  he  reached  the  bench  and  sank 
down  upon  it.  Nat-u-ritch,  from  her  hiding-place 
above,  could  hear  the  sobs  that  came  from  the 
crushed  and  broken  man. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

NAT-U-RITCH  stole  down  from  the  loft  and  crept 
to  where  Jim  had  stood.  Unconsciously  she 
repeated  the  same  picture  of  desolation  he  had  made 
as  he  stretched  out  his  arms  and  strained  his  eyes  to 
see  the  wagon  disappear  down  the  ravine,  which  the 
Indian  girl  could  now  see  far  off,  like  an  ant  on  a  hill, 
as  it  crawled  up  the  dun-colored  mound.  Like  him, 
she  folded  her  arms  and  stared  ahead  for  a  long  time- 
even  though  the  blinding  light  blurred  and  made  the 
landscape  a  chaotic  meeting  of  sky  and  earth. 

But,  unlike  him,  no  sobs  shook  her  tiny  body; 
erect  and  resolute  she  stood,  then  turned  and  noise 
lessly  came  down  behind  the  weeping  man.  In 
wondering  pity  she  watched  him,  then  crossed  to  the 
house  and  entered  it.  She  quickly  returned  with  the 
small  revolver  in  her  hand;  but  her  soft- shod  feet 
made  no  sound,  and  Jim,  unconscious  of  her  presence, 
still  sat  with  his  head  on  his  knees.  As  she  caught 
sight  of  the  tiny  moccasins  the  child  had  left  lying  on 
the  bench,  she  wavered  a  moment,  but  she  only  paused 
to  pick  them  up  and  press  them  against  her  wildly 
beating  heart.  She  had  but  one  thought — escape 
from  the  pain  that  gnawed  and  tormented  her. 

288 


THE   SQUAW  MAN 

Without  the  boy,  and  with  the  look  she  feared  she 
must  face  daily  in  Jim's  eyes,  she  knew  she  could  not 
endure  life.  There  was  no  rebellion,  only  acceptance 
of  her  fate,  as  she  crept  close  behind  Jim,  the  moc 
casins  covering  the  steel  weapon.  Worn  out,  Jim 
still  remained  with  head  bowed,  a  physical  stupor 
of  fatigue  almost  dulling  his  sorrow.  Nat-u-ritch's 
quick  ear  heard  the  voices  of  the  returning  men,  and 
she  darted  across  to  the  corral  and  disappeared  be 
hind  the  barn.  But  even  that  did  not  arouse  Jim. 

Shorty,  Andy,  and  Grouchy  hurried  after  Bill,  who 
was  coming  back  to  look  after  Jim.  Shorty  grasped 
Bill's  arm,  wheeled  him  about,  and  pointed  in  the 
direction  the  carriage  had  taken. 

"What  are  they  bringing  them  back  for,  Bill  ?"  he 
asked. 

Bill  swore  a  mighty  oath  as  he  saw  the  wagon 
headed  for  the  cabin,  with  Bud  and  his  posse  sur 
rounding  it.  He  must  prevent  a  meeting  between  Jim 
and  Bud  if  possible. 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  he  whispered  to  the  boys  as 
he  caught  sight  of  Jim.  "We'll  get  him  into  the 
house." 

He  came  down  to  Jim  and  tenderly  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "Jim,  old  man,  you  haven't  had  any 
sleep;  go  in  and  rest  awhile." 

Jim  looked  up  at  Bill,  who  pulled  him  to  his  feet, 
then  started  to  lead  him  towards  the  cabin.  He  could 
fight  the  physical  weariness  no  longer. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  all  right  soon,  Bill." 

289 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

Bill,  as  though  humoring  a  child,  said:  "Sure. 
We've  all  got  to  get  kind  of  used  to  it.  Sleep's  the 
thing  to  put  you  right." 

They  reached  the  cabin  door.  Jim  dully  echoed, 
"Sleep — sure,  sleep,  Bill."  Then  Bill  closed  the  door 
on  him. 

"Shorty,"  he  called,  "you  and  Grouchy  stand 
outside  of  that  door,  and  don't  you  let  him  out  of 
there  until  we  can  get  Bud  Hardy  away."  He  meant 
to  hurry  and  meet  the  wagon  before  it  could  reach  the 
yard,  but  as  he  spoke  he  heard  the  men  and  horses 
and  knew  that  it  was  useless. 

Andy,  who  had  been  watching  farther  down  the 
road,  ran  towards  him.  "Bill,"  he  called,  "Bud 
Hardy's  here."  As  he  spoke,  Bud  and  his  men  ad 
vanced,  followed  by  Diana  and  the  child,  while  Sir 
John  and  Petrie  stood  close  to  them. 

"Bud,"  Bill  began,  in  a  quick,  low  voice,  "Jim 
ain't  in  any  mood  to  be  trifled  with  to-day.  What  in 
hell  do  you  mean  by  stopping  these  people  when  I 
ordered  you  off  the  place  ?"  He  blurted  out  the  words 
as  though  fearful  of  the  impulse  that  drove  him  to 
do  bodily  harm  to  the  Sheriff. 

With  a  sneer  Bud  answered,  "I  told  you  I  would 
hold  these  people  as  witnesses,  and  now  I  want 
Nat-u-ritch." 

Before  Bill  could  remonstrate,  there  was  a  hoarse 
cry  from  the  house.  They  heard  Jim  wildly  saying, 
as  he  rushed  to  Bill: 

"Where  is  it  ?  Where  is  it  ?  It's  gone — gone!  Who 

290 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

took  it  ?     Bill,  did  you  put  that  little  gun  back  in  the 
room  as  I  told  you  ?" 

"That  I  did,  boss." 

As  Jim  stood  in  the  yard  he  failed  to  see  Diana  or 
the  child.  He  saw  only  the  great  form  of  the  Sheriff, 
with  his  men  around  him,  and  he  knew  that  mischief 
was  afoot. 

"  You  here,  damn  you!"  He  made  a  movement  to 
reach  Bud,  but  was  restrained  by  Shorty  and 
Grouchy.  Then  he  saw  that  the  entire  party  had 
been  taken  into  custody.  Before  he  could  expostulate, 
a  shot  rang  out. 

"What  was  that!" 

Bill  ran  to  the  barn.  Jim  followed  him,  but  was 
stopped  at  the  door  by  Bill. 

"Jim,"  he  cried,  "it's  Nat-u-ritch." 

Before  either  of  them  could  reach  the  tiny  form  they 
saw  Tabywana  lean  over  and  pick  up  the  child- 
woman  in  his  arms.  He  had  found  her,  but  too  late. 

Diana,  holding  the  child  and  followed  by  Petrie  and 
Sir  John,  drew  back  into  the  corner  of  the  porch. 
Bud  and  his  men,  who  had  lost  their  prey,  slunk 
away.  Only  his  faithful  men  stood  by  Jim  as 
Tabywana  advanced,  carrying  in  his  arms  the  dead 
Nat-u-ritch.  From  her  hands  dangled  the  tiny  baby 
shoes. 

Tabywana  held  out  the  lifeless  body  to  Jim.  In 
death  as  in  life,  she  belonged  to  her  master. 

"Poor  little  mother!  Poor  little  mother!"  Jim 
whispered. 

291 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE    fields  were    golden  -  tipped  with   mustard- 
flower,  while   a    haze   as    golden   touched   and 
glinted  the  green  of  the  encircling  hills.     A  riot  of 
vernal  glory  met  Jim's  eyes  as  he  walked  through  the 
lanes  that  led  to  the  Towers. 

Six  months  had  passed  since  Diana  and  Hal  had 
left  him,  and  until  now  the  West  with  its  memories 
had  held  him.  He  had  written  that  he  would  be  with 
them  on  this  day,  but  he  wished  to  return  quietly. 
Only  Diana  and  the  child  knew  of  his  expected  ar 
rival. 

The  soft  summer  heat  had  brought  into  blossom 
every  wild  flower  in  glen  and  roadway;  the  great  trees 
seemed  heavy  with  the  fragant  breezes  that  wafted 
through  their  leaves.  As  he  had  gone  from  home,  so 
he  wished  to  return  to  it — alone.  A  tumult  of  emo 
tions  battled  within  him  as  he  approached  the  entrance 
to  the  Towers.  He  found  the  heavy  doors  opened 
wide  as  though  expectant  of  a  visitor.  As  he  stood 
on  the  threshold  the  clock  of  the  church-tower  struck 
twelve.  It  was  noon — the  high  noon  of  his  life. 

From  the  hall  he  heard  a  voice  cry,  "Welcome 
home,  daddy!" 

292 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

He  turned  to  see  his  boy,  changed  even  during  the 
short  separation  —  but  stronger,  more  beautiful,  a 
veritable  princeling — holding  out  his  eager  little  arms. 
And  his  boy,  standing  alone  in  the  great  hallway  of 
the  home  of  their  ancestors,  welcomed  Jim  to  his  own. 
As  he  held  the  child  close  to  him,  his  eyes  searched  for 
Diana,  and  as  the  boy  rained  kisses  on  his  face,  Jim 
said: 

"Cousin  Di — where  is  she  ?" 

The  child  smiled,  and,  slipping  down  to  the  ground, 
took  hold  of  his  father's  hand  and  started  to  draw  him 
down  the  corridor  that  led  to  the  garden. 

"Cousin  Di  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  Fairies' 
Corner,"  said  the  child.  "We  go  there  to  play,  you 
know,  and  listen  for  the  fairies." 

Jim  did  not  speak,  but  the  child  prattled  on  as  he 
led  him  across  the  green  grass,  past  the  swaying, 
flaunting  hollyhocks  and  the  beds  of  old-fashioned, 
fragrant  flowers  that  lined  the  walks.  The  songs  of 
birds  filled  the  air — linnet,  lark,  and  thrush  seemed 
carolling  a  welcome  to  him.  But  Jim  hardly  heard 
what  the  boy  said.  He  could  see  only  the  waving 
tree-tops  of  the  mysterious  Corner  in  the  distance. 

"Cousin  Di!"  the  child  called,  as  he  ran  ahead  to 
herald  his  father's  coming. 

Beyond,  the  path  and  garden  were  bathed  in  strong 
sunlight;  the  heavens  were  full  of  drifting  azure  clouds. 
Over  all  was  the  dazzling,  bewildering  glory  of  the 
noonday  splendor,  and  before  Jim  stood  Diana,  a 
gracious  figure,  at  the  entrance  to  the  enchanted  spot. 

293 


THE   SQUAW   MAN 

On  her  face  a  tender  love  answered  all  that  his  eyes 
asked.  Behind  her  he  could  see  deep  into  the 
Fairies'  Corner;  in  there  all  was  peaceful;  only  golden 
cobwebs  of  sunlight  dappled  the  leaves  and  scattered 
the  enshrouding  gloom. 

Neither  Jim  nor  Diana  spoke.  The  boy's  atten 
tion  was  claimed  by  a  vivacious  wag-tail  that  chirruped 
at  his  feet,  then  fluttered  away  to  be  pursued  by  him. 
Once  he  turned  to  smile  back  a  reassurance  of  his 
joy  at  his  father's  return,  but  he  could  not  see  him. 

Diana  and  Jim  had  entered  the  Fairies'  Corner,  and 
this  time  they  heard  the  flutter  of  wings — the  wings 
of  their  love  as  it  enfolded  them  in  its  peace  and  holy 
joy. 


THE    END 


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CAROLINA  LEE.    By  Lillian  Bell.    With  frontispiece  by  Dora 
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Carolina  Lee  is  the  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  of  Christian  Science.  Its 
keynote  is  "  Divine  Love"  in  the  understanding  of  the  knowledge  of 
all  good  things  which  may  be  obtainable.  When  the  tale  is  tola,  the 
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THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  CANDLES.    With  a  frontis 
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A  novel  of  romance  and  adventure,  of  love  and  valor,  of  mystery  and 
hidden  treasure.  The  hero  is  required  to  spend  a  whole  year  in  the 
isolated  house,  which  according  to  his  grandfather's  will  shall  then 
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Nobody  can  guess  the  secret,  and  the  whole  plot  moves  along  with 
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THE  PORT  OF  MISSING  MEN.    With  illustrations  by  Clar 
ence  F.  Underwood. 

There  is  romance  of  love,  mystery,  plot,  and  righting,  and  a  breath 
less  dash  and  go  about  the  telling  which  makes  one  quite  forget 
about  the  improbabilities  of  the  story;  and  it  all  ends  in  the  old- 
fashioned  healthy  American  way.  Shirley  is  a  sweet,  courageous 
heroine  whose  shining  eyes  lure  from  page  to  page. 

ROSALIND  AT  REDGATE.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  I.  Keller. 

The  author  of  "  The  House  of  a  Thousand  Candles "  has  here 
given  us  a  bouyant  romance  brimming  with  lively  humor  and  opti 
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piness.  A  most  entertaining  and  delightful  book. 

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action  of  this  clever  story  revolves.  But  it  is  in  the  character-draw 
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in  the  end,  it  is  quite  in  keeping  with  its  carefully-planned  antecedents. 
The  N.  Y.  Sun  says :  "  We  commend  it  for  its  workmanship — for  its 
smoothness,  its  sensible  fancies,  and  for  its  general  charm." 

ZELDA  DAMERON.      With  portraits  of  the  characters  by 
John  Cecil  Clay. 

"  A  picture  of  the  new  West,  at  once  startlingly  and  attractively 
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atmosphere  is  convincing.  There  is  about  it  a  sweetness,  a  whole- 
someness  and  a  sturdiness  that  commends  it  to  earnest,  kindly  and 
wholesome  people." — Boston  Transcript. 

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THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO.    Being  a  Memoir  of  Captain  Basil 
Jennico. 

"  What  separates  it  from  most  books  of  its  class  is  its  distinction 
of  manner,  its  unusual  grace  of  diction,  its  delicacy  of  touch,  and  the 
fervent  charm  of  its  love  passages.  It  is  a  very  attractive  piece  of 
romantic  fiction  relying  for  its  effect  upon  character  rather  than  inci 
dent,  and  upon  vivid  dramatic  presentation." — The  Dial.  "  A  stirring, 
brilliant  and  dashing  story." — The  Oatlook. 

THE  SECRET  ORCHARD.  Illustrated  by  Charles  D.  Williams. 

The  "  Secret  Orchard  "  is  set  in  the  midst  of  the  ultramodern  society. 
The  scene  is  in  Paris,  but  most  of  the  characters  a_re  English  speak 
ing.  The  story  was  dramatized  in  London,  and  in  it  the  Kendalls 
scored  a  great  theatrical  success. 

"  Artfully  contrived  and  full  of  romantic  charm  *  *  *  it  pos 
sesses  ingenuity  of  incident,  a  figurative  designation  of  the  unhal 
lowed  scenes  in  which  unlicensed  love  accomplishes  and  wrecks  faith 
and  happiness." — Athenaeum. 

YOUNG  APRIL.    With  illustrations  by  A.  B.  Wenzell. 

"  It  is  everything  that  a  good  romance  should  be,  and  it  carries 
about  it  ikii  air  of  distinction  both  rare  and  delightful." — Chicago 
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novel,  so  delicate  in  its  romance,  so  brilliant  in  its  episodes,  so  spark 
ling  in  its  art,  and  so  exquisite  in  its  diction. " —  Worcester  Spy. 

FLOWER  O'  THE  ORANGE.    With  frontispiece. 

We  have  learned  to  expect  from  these  fertile  authors  novels  grace 
ful  in  form,  brisk  in  movement,  and  romantic  in  conception.  This 
carries  the  reader  back  to  the  days  of  the  bewigged  and  beruffled 
gallants  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  tells  him  of  feats  of  arms  and 
adventures  in  love  as  thrilling  and  picturesque,  yet  delicate,  as  the 
utmost  seeker  of  romance  may  ask. 

MY  MERRY  ROCKHURST.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  E.  Becher. 

In  the  eight  stories  of  a  courtier  of  King  Charles  Second,  which  are 
here  gathered  together,  the  Castles  are  at  their  best,  reviving  all  the 
fragrant  charm  of  those  books,  like  The  Pride  of  Jennico,  in  which 
they  first  showed  an  instinct,  amounting  to  genius,  for  sunny  romances. 
The  book  is  absorbing  *  *  *  and  is  as  spontaneous  in  feeling  as  it  is 
artistic  in  execution." — New  York  Tribune. 

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handsomely  bound  in  cloth.  Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 


THE  CATTLE  BARON'S  DAUGHTER.    A  Novel.  By  Harold 
Bindloss.     With  illustrations  by  David  Ericson. 

A  story  of  the  fight  for  the  cattle-ranges  of  the  West.  Intense  in 
terest  is  aroused  by  its  pictures  of  life  m  the  cattle  country  at  that 
critical  moment  of  transition  when  the  great  tracts  of  land  used  for 
grazing  were  taken  up  by  the  incoming  homesteaders,  with  the  in 
evitable  result  of  fierce  contest,  of  passionate  emotion  on  both  sides, 
and  of  final  triumph  of  the  inevitable  tendency  of  the  times. 

WINSTON  OF  THE  PRAIRIE.    With  illustrations  in  color  by 
W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

A  man  of  upright  character,  young  and  clean,  but  badly  worsted 
in  the  battle  of  life,  consents  as  a  desperate  resort  to  impersonate  for 
a  period  a  man  of  his  own  age— scoundrelly  in  character  but  of  an 
aristocratic  and  moneyed  family.  The  better  man  finds  himself  barred 
from  resuming  his  ola  name.  How,  coming  into  the  other  man's  pos 
sessions,  he  wins  the  respect  of  all  men,  and  the  love  of  a  fastidious, 
delicately  nurtured  girl,  is  the  thread  upon  which  the  story  hangs.  It 
is  one  of  the  best  novels  of  the  West  that  has  appeared  for  years. 

THAT  MAINWARING  AFFAIR.      By  A.  Maynard  Barbour. 
With  illustrations  by  E.  Plaisted  Abbott. 

A  novel  with  a  most  intricate  and  carefully  unraveled  plot.  A 
naturally  probable  and  excellently  developed  story  and  the  reader 
will  follow  the  fortunes  of  each  character  with  unabating  interest 
*  *  4*  the  interest  is  keen  at  the  close  of  the  first  chapter  and  in 
creases  to  the  end, 

AT  THE  TIME  APPOINTED.    With  a  frontispiece  In  colors 
by  J.  H.  Marchand. 

The  fortunes  of  a  young  mining  engineer  who  through  an  accident 
loses  his  memory  and  identity.  In  his  new  character  and  under  his 
new  name,  the  hero  lives  a  new  life  of  struggle  land  adventure.  The 
volume  will  be  found  highly  entertaining  by  those  who  appreciate  a 
thoroughly  good  story, 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,         •         -         New  York 


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Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE,  By  Mary  Roberts  Reinhart 

With  illustrations  by  Lester  Ralph. 

In  an  extended  notice  the  New  Yot k  Sun  says:  "  To  readers 
who  care  for  a  really  good  detective  story  'The  Circular  Stair- 
case  '  can  be  recommended  without  reservation.  The  Philadelphia 
Record  declares  that  "  The  Circular  Staircase  "  deserves  the  laur 
els  for  thrills,  for  weirdness  and  things  unexplained  and  inexplicable 

THE  RED  YEAR,  By  Louis  Tracy 

"  Mr.  Tracy'gives  by  far  the  most  realistic  and  impressive  pic. 
tures  of  the  horrors  and  heroisms  of  the  Indian  Mutiny  that 
has  been  available  in  any  book  of  the  kind  *  *  *  There  has  not 
been  in  modern  times  in  the  history  of  any  land  scenes  so  fear- 
ful,  so  picturesque,  so  dramatic,  and  Mr.  Tracy  draws  them  as 
with  the  pencil  of  a  Verestschagin  of  the  pen  of  a  Sienkiewics." 

ARMS  AND  THE  WOMAN,  By  Harold  MacGrath 

With  inlay  cover  in  colors  by  Harrison  Fisher. 
The  story  is  a  blending  of  the  romance  and  adventure  of  the 
middle  ages  with  nineteenth  century  men  and  women ;  and  they  are 
creations  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  not  mere  pictures  of  past  centuries. 
The  story  is  about  Jack  Winthrop,  a  newspaper  man.  Mr.  Mac- 
Grath's  finest  bit  of  character  drawing  is  seen  in  Hillars,  the  bro 
ken  down  newspaper  man,  and  Jack's  chum. 

LOVE  IS  THE  SUM  OF  IT  ALL,  By  Geo.  Cary  EgglestoD 

With  illustration:,  by  Hermann  Heyer. 

In  this  "  plantation  romance  "  Mr.  Eggleston  has  resumed  the 
manner  and  method  that  made  his  "  Dorothy  South"  one  of  the 
most  famous  books  of  its  time. 

There  are  three  tender  love  stories  embodied  in  it,  and  two 
unusually  interesting  heroines,  utterly  unlike  each  other,  but  each 
possessed  of  a  peculiar  fascination  which  wins  and  holds  the  read 
er's  sympathy.  A  pleasing  vein  of  gentle  humor  runs  through  the 
work,  but  the  "  sum  of  it  all "  is  an  intensely  sympathetic  love  story. 

HEARTS  AND  THE  CROSS,   By  Harold  Morton  Cramer 

With  illustrations  by  Harold  Matthews  Brett. 
The  hero  is  an  unconventional  preacher  who  follows  the  line  of 
the  Man  of  Galilee,  associating  with  the  lowly,  and  working  for 
them  in  the  ways  that  may  best  serve  them.  He  is  not  recognized 
at  his  real  value  except  by  the  one  woman  who  saw  clearly.  Their 
love  story  is  one  of  the  refreshing  things  in  recent  fiction. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,     -     -     NEW  YORK 


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size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth, 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid 

THE  SHUTTLE,  By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

With  inlay  cover  in  colors  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 
This  great  international  romance  relates  the  story  of  an  Ameri 
can  girl  who,  in  rescuing  her  sister  from  the  ruins  of  her  marriage 
to  an  Englishman  of  title,  displays  splendid  qualities  of  courage, 
tact  and  restraint.  As  a  s^udy  of  American  womanhood  of  modern 
times,  the  character  of  Bettina  Vanderpoel  stands  alone  in  litera 
ture.  As  a  love  story,  the  account  of  her  experience  is  magnificent. 
The  masterly  handling,  the  glowing  style  of  the  book,  give  it  a 
literary  rank  to  which  very  few  modern  novels  have  attained. 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  MARCHIONESS, 

By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

Illustrated  with  half  tone  engravings  by  Charles  D.  Williams. 

With  initial  letters,  tail-pieces,  decorative  borders.     Beautifully 

printed,  and  daintily  bound,  and  boxed. 

A  delightful  novel  in  the  author's  most  charming  vein.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  an  English  country  house,  where  an  amiable  Eng 
lish  nobleman  is  the  centre  of  matrimonial  interest  on  the  part  of 
both  the  English  and  Americans  present. 

Graceful,  sprightly,  almost  delicious  in  its  dialogue  and  action. 
It  is  a  book  about  which  one  is  tempted  to  write  ecstatically, 

THE  METHODS  OF  LADY  WALDERHURST, 

By  Francis  Hodgson  Burnett 

A  Companion  Volume  to  "  The  Making  of  •  Marchionew." 
With   illustrations   by  Charles  D.  Williams,  and  with  initial 
letters,  tail-pieces,  and  borders,  by  A.  K.  Womrath.     Beautifully 
printed  and  daintily  bound,  and  boxed. 

"The  Methods  of  Lady  Walderhurst "  is  a  delightful  story 
which  combines  the  sweetness  of  "  The  Making  of  a  Marchioness, 
with  the  dramatic  qualities  of  "  A  Lady  of  Quality.''    Lady  Wal 
derhurst  is  one  of  the  most  charming  characters  in  modern  fictioa 

VAYENNE,  By  Percy  Brebner 

With  illustrations  by  E.  Fuhr. 

This  romance  like  the  author's  The  Princess  Maritza  is  charged 
to  the  brim  with  adventure.  Sword  play,  bloodshed,  justice  grown 
the  multitude,  sacrifice,  and  romance,  mingle  in  dramatic  episoc)es 
that  are  born,  flourish,  and  pass  away  on  every  page. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,      -      -     NEW  YORK 


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IN  POPULAR  PRICED  EDITIONS 

Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper— most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty— and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP,  By  Edw.  Salisbury  Field 

With  a  color  frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher,  and  illustra 
tions  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood,  decorated  pages  and  end 
sheets,    Harrison  Fisher  head  in  colors  on  cover.    Boxed, 
A  story  of  cleverness.    It  is  a  jolly  good  romance  of  love  at 
first  sight  that  will  be  read  with  undoubted  pleasure.    Automobil- 
ing  figures  in  the  story  which  is  told  with  light,  bright  touches, 
while  a  happy  gift  of  humor  permeates  it  all. 

"  The  book  is  full  of  interesting  folks.  The  patois  of  the  garage  is 
used  with  full  comic  and  realistic  effect,  and  effervescently,  cul 
minating  in  the  usual  happy  finish." — St.  Louis  Mirror, 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW, 

By  Gene  Stratton-Porter  Author  of  "  FRECKLES  " 

With  illustrations  in  color  by  OMver  Kemp,  (^coratior.s  by 
Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour  and  inlay  cover  in  cuiois, 
%  The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrific 
ing  love ;  the  friendship  ti^at  gives  freely  without  return,  and  the 
love  that  seeks  first  the  happiness  of  the  object.  The  novel  is 
brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of  nature  and  its 
pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

JUDITH  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS,  By  Alice  MacGowa* 

With  illustrations  in  colors,  and  inlay  cover  by  George  Wright 
No  one  can  fail  to  enjoy  this  moving  tale  with  its  lovely  and  ar 
dent  heroine,  its  frank,  fearless  hero,  its  glowing  love  passages, 
and  its  variety  of  characters,  captivating  or  engaging  humorous 
or  saturnine,  villains,  rascals,  and  men  oFgood  will.  A  tale  strong 
and  interesting  in  plot,  faithful  and  vivid  as  a  picture  of  wila 
mountain  life,  and  in  its  characterization  full  of  warmth  and  glow. 

A  MILLION  A  MINUTE,  By  Hudson  Douglas 

With  illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 

Has  the  catchiest  of  titles,  and  it  is  a  ripping  good  tale  from 
Chapter  I  to  Finis — no  weighty  problems  to  be  solved,  but  just  a 
fine  running  story,  full  or  exciting  incidents,  that  never  seemed 
strained  or  improbable.  It  is  a  dainty  love  yarn  involving  three 
men  and  a  girl.  There  is  not  a  dull  or  trite  situation  in  the  book, 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,      -      -      NEW  YORK 


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Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

.CONJUROR'S  HOUSE,  By  Stewart  Edward  White 

Dramatized  under  the  title  of  "THE  CALL  OF  THE  NORTH." 

Illustrated  from  Photographs  of  Scenes  from  the  Play. 
Conjuror's  House  is  a  Hudson  Bay  trading  port  -where  the  Fur 
Trading  Company  tolerated  no  rivalry.  Trespassers  were  sen 
tenced  to  "  La  Longue  Traverse  "—which  meant  official  death. 
How  Ned  Trent  entered  the  territory,  took  la  lonrue  traverse^, 
and  the  journey  down  the  river  of  life  with  the  factor's  only 
daughter  is  admirably  told.  It  is  a  warm,  vivid,  and  dramatic  story, 
and  depicts  the  tenderness  and  mystery  of  a  woman's  heart. 

ARIZONA  NIGHTS,  By  Stewart  Edward  White. 

With  illustrations  by  N.  C.  Wyeth,  and  beautiful  inlay  cover. 

A  series  of  spirited  tales  emphasizing  some  phase  of  the  life  of 

the  ranch,  plains  and  desert,  and  all,  taken  together,  forming  a 

single  sharply- cut  picture  of  life  in  the  far  Southwest.    All  the 

tonic  of  the  West  is  in  this  masterpiece  of  Stewart  Edward  White. 

THE  MYSTERY, 

By  Stewart  Edward  White  and  Samuel  Hopkins  Adama 

With  illustrations  by  Will  Crawford. 

For  breathless  interest,  concentrated  excitement  and  extraordi 
narily  good  story  telling  on  all  counts,  no  more  completely  satisfy 
ing  romance  has  appeared  for  years.  It  has  been  voted  the  best 
Story  of  its  kind  since  Treasure  Island. 

LIGHT-FINGERED  GENTRY.     By  David  Graham  Phillip* 

With  illustrations. 

Mr.  Phillips  has  chosen  the  inside  workings  of  the  great  insurance 
companies  as  his  field  of  battle ;  the  salons  of  the  great  Fifth 
Avenue  mansions  as  the  antechambers  of  his  field  of  intrigue ; 
and  the  two  things  which  every  natural,  big  man  desires,  love  and 
success,  as  the  goal  of  his  leading  character.  The  book  is  full  of 
I  practical  philosophy,  which  makes  it  worth  careful  reading. 

THE  SECOND  GENERATION,   By  David  Graham  Phillip* 

With  illustrations  by  Fletcher  C.  Ramson,  and  inlay  cover. 
"  It  is  a  story  that  proves  how,  in  some  cases,  the  greatest  harm 
a  rich  man  may  do  his  children,  is  to  leave  them  his  money.  "A 
strong,  wholspme  story  of  contemporary  American  life — tnought- 
ful,  well-conceived  and  admirably  written ;  forceful,  sincere,  and 
true ;  and  intensely  interesting." — Boston  Herald. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,     -     -     NEW  YORK 


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IN  POPULAR  PRICED  EDITIONS 

Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Prici,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA, 

By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin    With  illustrations  by  F.  C.  Yohn 

Additional  episodes  in  the  girlhood  of  the  delightful  little  hero 
ine  at  Riverboro  which  were  not  included  in  the  story  of  "  Rebecca 
of  Sunnybrook  Farm,"  and  they  are  as  characteristic  and  delight 
ful  as  any  part  of  that  famous  story.  Rebecca  is  as  distinct  a  crea 
tion  in  the  second  volume  as  in  the  first. 

THE  SILVER  BUTTERFLY,  By  Mrs.  Wilson  Woodrow 

With  illustrations  in  colors  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

A  story  of  love  and  mystery,  full  of  color,  charm,  and  vivacity, 
dealing  with  a  South  American  mine,  rich  beyond  dreams,  and  of 
a  New  York  maiden,  beyond  dreams  beautiful — both  known  as 
the  Silver  Butterfly.  Well  named  is  The  Silver  Butterfly  !  There 
could  not  be  a  better  symbol  of  the  darting  swiftness,"  the  eager 
love  plot,  the  elusive  mystery  and  the  flashing  wit. 

BEATRIX  OF  CLARE,  By  John  Reed  Scott 

With  illustrations  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

A  spirited  and  irresistibly  attractive  historical  romance  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  boldly  conceived  and  skilfully  carried  out.  In 
the  hero  and*  heroine  Mr.  Scott  has  created  a  pair  whose  mingled 
emotions  and  and  alternating  hopes  and  fears  will  find  a  welcome 
in  many  lovers  of  the  present  hour.  Beatrix  is  a  fascinting  daugh 
ter  of  Eve. 

A  LITTLE  BROTHER  OF  THE  RICH, 

By  Joseph  Medill  Patterson 

Frontispiece  by  Hazel  Martyn  Trudeau,  and  illustrations  by 
Walter  Dean  Goldbeck. 

Tells  the  story  of  the  idle  rich,  and  is  a  vivid  and  truthful  pic 
ture  of  society  and  stage  life  written  by  one  who  is  himself  a  con 
spicuous  member  of  the  Western  millionaire  class.  Full  of  grim 
satire,  caustic  wit  and  flashing  epigrams.  "  Is  sensational  to  a  de 
gree  in  its  theme,  daring  in  its  treatment,  lashing  society  as  it  was 
never  scourged  before." — ATc~w  York  Sun. 

liROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,      -      -      NEW  YORK 


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Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

BEVERLY  OF  GRAUSTARK.  By  George  Barr  McCut- 
cheon.  With  Color  Frontispiece  and  other  illustrations 
by  Harrison  Fisher.  Beautiful  inlay  picture  in  colors  of 
Beverly  on  the  cover. 

"  The  most  fascinating,  engrossing  and  picturesque  of  the  season's 
novels. " — Boston  Herald.  "  '  Beverly '  is  altogether  charming — al 
most  living  flesh  and  blood."—  Louisville  Times.  "Better  than 
'  Graustark  V — Mail  and  Express.  "  A  sequel  quite  as  impossible 
as  '  Graustark '  and  quite  as  entertaining." — Bookman.  "  A  charm 
ing  love  story  well  told."— Boston  Transcript, 

HALF  A  ROGUE.    By  Harold  MacGrath.     With  illustra- 

tions  and  inlay  cover  picture  by  Harrison  Fisher. 
"  Here  are  dexterity  of  plot,  glancing  play  at  witty  talk,  characters 
really  human  and  humanly  real,  spirit  and  gladness,  freshness  and 
quick  movement.  '  Half  a  Rogue  '  is  as  brislc  as  a  horseback  ride  on 
a  glorious  morning.  It  is  as  varied  as  an  April  day.  It  is  as  charming 
as  two  most  charming  girls  can  make  it.  Love  and  honor  and  suc 
cess  and  all  the  great  things  worth  righting  for  and  living  for  the  in 
volved  in  '  Half  a  Rogue.'  "—Phila.  Press. 

THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE.     By  Charles  Clark 

Munn.  With  illustrations  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
"  Figuring  in  the  pages  of  this  story  there  are  several  strong  char 
acters.  Typical  New  England  folk  and  an  especially  sturdy  one,  old 
Cy  Walker,  through  whose  instrumentality  Chip  comes  to  happiness 
and  fortune.  There  is  a  chain  of  comedy,  tragedy,  pathos  and  love, 
which  makes  a  dramatic  story  "—Boston  Herald. 

THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE.    A  story  of  American  Life. 
By  Charles  Klein,  and  Arthur  Hornblow.      With  illustra 
tions  by  Stuart  Travis,  and  Scenes  from  the  Play. 
The  novel  duplicated  the  success  of  the  play ;  in  fact  the  book  is 
greater  than  the  play.    A  portentous  clash  of  dominant  personalties 
that  form  the  essence  of  the  play  are  necessarily  touched  upon  but 
briefly  in  the  short  space  of  four  acts.     All  this  is  narrated  in  the 
novel  with  a  wealth  of  fascinating  and  absorbing  detail,  making  it  one 
of  the  most  powerfully  written  and  exciting  works  of  fiction  given  to 
the  world  in  years. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          T"          NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little   Prices 

NEW,  CLEVER,  ENTERTAINING. 

GRET :    The  Story  of  a  Pagan.    By  Beatrice  Mantle.    Illustrated 
by  C.  M.  Relyea. 


vention. 

OLD  CHESTER   TALES.     By  Margaret  Deland.     Illustrated 
by  Howard  Pyle. 

A  vivid  yet  delicate  portrayal  of  characters  in  an  old  New  England  town. 

Dr.  Lavendar's  fine,  kindly  wisdom  is  brought  to  bear  upon  the  lives  of 
all,  permeating  the  whole  volume  like  the  pungent  odor  of  pine,  healthful 
and  life  giving.  "  Old  Chester  Tales  "  will  surely  be  among  the  books  that 
abide. 

THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  BABY.    By  Josephine  Daskam.    Illus 
trated  by  F.  Y.  Cory. 

The  dawning  intelligence  of  the  baby  was  grappled  with  by  its  great  aunt, 
an  elderly  maiden,  whose  book  knowledge  ofbabies  was  something  at  which 
even  the  infant  himself  winked.    A  delicious  bit  of  humor. 
REBECCA  MARY.      By  Annie  Hamilton  Donnell.      Illustrated 
by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 

The  heart  tragedies  of  this  little  girl  with  no  one  near  to  share  them,  are 
told  with  a  delicate  art,  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  needs  of  the  childish 
heart  and  a  humorous  knowledge  ot  the  workings  of  the  childish  mind. 
THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL.    By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston. 
Frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

An  Irish  story  of  real  power,  perfect  in  development  and  showing  a  true 
conception  of  the  spirited  Hibernian  character  as  displayed  in  the  tragic  as 
well  as  the  tender  phases  of  life. 

THE  MAN  FROM  BRODNEY'S.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

An  island  in  the  South  Sea  is  the  setting  for  this  entertaining  tale,  and 
an  all-conquering  hero  and  a  beautiful  princess  figure  in  a  most  complicated 
plot.  One  of  Mr.  McCutcheon's  best  books. 

TOLD  BY  UNCLE  REMUS.    By  Joel  Chandler  Harris.    Hlus- 
trated  by  A.  B.  Frost,  J.  M.  Conde  and  Frank  Verbeck. 

Again  Uncle  Remus  enters  the  fields  of  childhood,  and  leads  another 
little  boy  to  that  non-lqcatable   land  called  "  Brer    Rabbit's   Laughing 
Place,"  and  again  the  quaint  animals  spring  into  active  life  and  play  their 
parts,  for  the  edifi cation  of  a  small  but  appreciative  audience. 
THE  CLIMBER.    By  E.  F.  Benson.     With  frontispiece. 

An  unsparing  analysis  of  an  ambitious  woman's  soul— a  woman  who 

believed  that  in  social  supremacy  she  would  find  happiness,  and  who  finds 

instead  the  utter  despair  of  one  who  has  chosen  the  things  that  pass  away. 

LYNCH'S  DAUGHTER.    By  Leonard  Merrick.    Illustrated  by 

Geo.  Brehm. 

A  story  of  to-day,  telling  how  a  rich  girl  acquires  ideals  of  beautiful  and 
simple  living,  and  of  men  and  love,  quite  apart  from  the  teachings  of  her 
father,  "  Old  Man  Lynch  "X .Wall  St.  True  to  life,  clever  in  treatment. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.  ,  NEW  YORK 


GROSSET  &   DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

A  Few  that  are  Making  Theatrical  History 

MARY  JANE'S  PA.    By  Norman  Way.    Illustrated  with  scenes 

from  the  play. 

Delightful,  irresponsible  "  Mary  lane's  Pa  "  awakes  one  morning  to  find 
himself  famous,  and,  genius  being  ill  adapted  to  domestic  joys,  he  wanders 
from  home  to  work  out  his  own  unique  destiny.  One  of  the  most  humorous 
bits  of  recent  fiction. 

CHERUB  DEVINE.    By  Sewell  Ford. 

"  Cherub,"  a  good  hearted  but  not  over  refined  young  man  Is  brought  in 
touch  with  the  aristocracy.  Of  sprightly  wit,  he  is  sometimes  a  merciless 
analyst,  but  he  proves  in  the  end  that  manhood  counts  for  more  than  anci 
ent  lineage  by  winning  the  love  of  the  fairest  girl  in  the  flock. 

A  WOMAN'S  WAY.     By  Charles  Somerville.    Illustrated  with 

scenes  from  the  play. 

A  story  in  which  a  woman's  wit  and  self -sacrificing  love  save  her  husband 
from  the  toils  of  an  adventuress,  and  change  an  apparently  tragic  situation 
into  one  of  delicious  comedy. 

THE  CLIMAX.    By  George  C.  Jenks. 

With  ambition  luring  her  on,  a  young  choir  soprano  leaves  the  little  village 
where  she  was  born  and  the  limited  audience  of  St.  Jude's  to  train  for  the 
opera  in  New  York.  She  leaves  love  behind  her  and  meets  love  more  ardent 
but  not  more  sincere  in  her  new  environment.  How  she  works,  how  she 
studies,  how  she  suffers,  are  vividly  portrayed. 

A  FOOL  THERE  WAS.     By  Porter  Emerson  Browne.     Illus 
trated  by  Edmund  Magrath  and  W.  W.  Fawcett. 
A  relentless  portrayal  of  the  career  of  a  man  who  C9mes  under  the  influence 
of  a  beautiful  but  evil  woman ;  how  she  lures  him  on  and  on,  how  he 
struggles,  falls  and  rises,  only  to  fall  again  into  her  net,  make  a  story  of 
unflinching  realism. 

THE  SQUAW   MAN.     By  Julie  Opp  Faversham  and  Edwin 

Milton  Royle.    Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 
A  glowing  story,  rapid  in  action,  brig!    in  dialogue  with  a  fine  courageous 
hero  and  a  beautiful  English  heroine. 

THE  GIRL   IN  WAITING.     By  Archibald  Eyre.     Illustrated 

with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  droll  little  comedy  of  misunderstandings,  told  with  a  light  touch,  a  ven 
turesome  spirit  and  an  eye  for  human  oddities. 

THE    SCARLET    PIMPERNEL.     By  Baroness  Orcay.     Illus 
trated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  realistic  story  of  the  days  of  the  French  Revolution,  abounding  in 
dramatic  incident,  with  a  young  English  soldier  of  fortune,  daring,  mysteri 
ous  as  the  hero, 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


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